An Elf And A ShieldMaiden
by Corbyjane
Summary: Two memoirs set in counterpoint, Arwen and Eowyn's POVs, published by Hobbit ancient-linguist Aminta Took, who discovered them while on a trip with her archaeologist father through Rath Dinen and Edoras. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Forword by Aminta Took

The accounts of the War of the Ring by Queen Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond; and Princess Éowyn, daughter of Éomund of the House of Éorl.

_Discovered by Aminta Took, daughter of Erlin Took, and translated from the Quenya and the Rohirric to the Common Tongue by aforesaid Erlin son of Peregrin Took III_

**Foreword by Aminta Took**

My profession is that of an archaeologist; I am the daughter of a linguist who works primarily with dead languages. I was raised around ancient history; my _job_ is about ancient history. I had long been fascinated by tales of Arwen Úndomiel and Éowyn—my mother, like most hobbit mothers, had told me their stories in my cradle, along with the stories of Eleanor the Fair,

I came across the two books containing the autobiographies of Queen Arwen and Princess Éowyn in the year 3400, two-hundred and sixty-eight years after the passing of the Queen and her husband, and centuries after the passing of Éowyn (an event that is not dated by history).

I was in the process of writing a book on famous Middle-Earth females, and for my research was ransacking the ruined portions of that beautiful city, Gondor. While in the more populated areas, an old woman had been telling some children the legend of Arwen and Aragorn, a love story, and the tale of how Arwen had hidden her memoirs. Overhearing this story, I made a point of speaking to the woman after, gathering specifics. Arwen's autobiography would make a breathtaking addition to my book.

"Of course, it's only rumour," she said.

"But many other historic objects have been found through similar rumours," I told her.

My father and I had been going through some old manuscripts, searching for more information on the War of the Ring (WR). Our findings eventually became a portion of the half-finished novel that we completed—_The Red Book: The Lord of the Rings._ Together we found many interesting writings that, once my father had translated, became a crucial part of understanding the culture during the WR. But it was _I_, alone, that found the greatest treasure of all (in my eyes).

After examining the whole of the Gondorian libraries, my father began to look about the ruined parts of the City. After all, the City is still one of the most important parts of Middle-Earth, no matter what one's species is. Intrigued as I was, I excused myself: I wanted to verify the old woman's story.

I found my way down to Rath Dínen, and kept going. The vocation of archaeology is not one to forsake because of one's personal superstitions.

I saw, at last, the enormous pyre legend attributes to the mad Steward of Gondor, Denethor, the father of the Last Steward, Prince Faramir of Ithilien. I felt a slight chill, as the story is well known in the Shire. But I forced myself to keep going.

It felt like a tomb—and it was. I looked about me and saw the corpses of Gondorian Kings long ago. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to shake off the panic that overtook me. "There is nothing to fear," I told myself, but even my words sounded dead—as if the stagnant air had sucked the breath from them. But I had come for a purpose, and nothing stops the daughter of Ergil.

I found the bed of two Hobbits: no doubt two of my distant relatives, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. I stared a moment at them, fascinated by the ancient styles they wore.

But between them lay my reason for venturing into a crypt. A Man's body, royally dressed. A star-pendant of diamond or crystal was around his neck on a silver chain, casting a silvery light around the room. A sword lay beside him, the famed Andûril, Flame of the West. On his chest was a little grey leather book, with Elvish script across the cover.

The sword and pendant I did not touch. I had no need of them, and they were the property of the long-dead King. But the book!

I reached for it, my fingers trembling in anticipation. I flipped through the pages, trying to translate the Sindarin using what my father had taught me, but the script was too ornate and the dialect to antiquated. I would leave it for my father to translate.

A sound from behind me startled me so that I almost dropped the book. Fortunately for every archaeologist in Middle Earth, I had been so excited that my first impulse was to clutch the book to my chest—such a fall would surely have destroyed the spine, and the fragile pages could not have withstood the dashing. I whirled around, half-expecting to find a skeletal man standing behind me. But it was only Father, come to find me.

"What does this say?" I asked him when I could breathe again, shoving the book into his hands.

He flipped through the pages and muttered to himself in Sindarin. Then he looked up at me. "You appear to have found a book written by Queen Arwen, daughter."

"Her journal?" I gasped.

"More of a memoirs, I think."

"I knew it!" I said, jumping up and down.

"So shall we return to the Shire and translate these?"

"Not yet," I said. "One more stop."

That stop was Edoras. Another legend said there was a hidden panel in one of the pillars of the court, and I was anxious to test if this were true.

It took a week and a half of searching, but, with the kind assistance of King Éorl II and Queen Gilrodel, we found it. In the pillar were many artefacts from long ago, including the autobiography of Princess Éowyn of Ithilien.

As I sat on the floor, covered in dust, flipping through the mouldy pages of the book I'd worked so hard to find, someone opened a door between the kitchen and the room I was in, and the room was filled with the savoury smells of dinner. My mouth watered, and I looked up at the Queen, who was standing over me, reading over my shoulder.

"Will you stay for a meal before returning to the Shire?" she asked, her grey eyes wet with happiness.

"Of course!" I said, standing up. Important as history is, the well-being of the historian must come first.

Here are the stories. I have entitled Arwen's journal _Beyond the Circles of This World_, and Éowyn's _A Shield-Maiden of the North_. Together they are _An Elf and a Shield-Maiden._

I have translated the months from the original languages to the Common Tongue, so all will be able to understand. References to people, nicknames and such, are left in the original languages.


	2. Shadows of the Past: Arwen

Author's Note: From now on, the chapters will alternate perspectives, starting with Arwen. That is why the chapter numbers (within the document) will repeat. This is chapter one of Arwen's memoirs, the next chapter will be chapter one of Eowyn's memoirs. I hope this makes sense...

The Manuscript Commences Here

Chapter I: Shadows Of The Past…

Midsummer, 2951

"_I will see you again," my mother said, stroking my hair as she held me close. "Tíndomerel—I will see you again!"_

_She held me away from her at arm's length and looked me up and down. Then she tore at the chain around her neck, breaking it and holding the pendant out to me. It was a white stone called Evenstar, only found in Valinor. It had been cut fashioned to look like the true Evenstar, the one that shone down on us as we said goodbye on the steps of Imladris. _

"_Nana?" I stared at the glittering jewel. The light danced across it until I could almost believe it was alive. How could she give me this? It meant more than the world to her. Her mother, Galadriel, had brought it from across the Seas, and had given it to her as a wedding present when she had married Adar. I could not remember a time when she had not worn it. _

_She took my hand and pressed the pendant into it. "Keep it until we meet again." _

"_I will."_

"_Do you promise?" she asked urgently._

"_I said I—"_

"_Promise!"_

_I promised in a whisper, closing my fingers around the stone. The damp afternoon at the Havens made everything cold, but the jewel seemed to give off a kind of warmth. _

"_You must leave now, Celebrían," Adar said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "May the Evenstar shine brightly upon you, until we meet again."_

"_And you, Elrond," my mother said. "Harthon gerithach aeair vilui__1__."_

_Adar's lips brushed my mother's, then he said, "We _will_ meet again, you and I, and Elrohir and Elladan…"_

_Then he looked at me, and his eyes suddenly focused on something beyond me. "…And Arwen," he added. "We will meet again. Namarië!"_

_Sílet, my mother's servant and confidante, looked up at me sadly. Her brown eyes were full of emotions as she watched our bitter parting. I knew her well… she was the mother of Lambë, my own servant. She took my mother's hand now, and gently led her down the steps. "Come, milady," she said in a voice as silver as the gown she wore. "We must go." A dark strand of hair strayed from Sílet's braid, and she slid it behind her ear. _

_My mother looked up at me , and I knew she was fixing me into her memory as I was fixing her. The way her blond hair swirled about her on the wings of the wind. The way her green eyes were sparkling with tears as they looked back at Adar and my brothers. The way her white and green skirts swirled about her as she ran down the steps to where the other Elves her waiting. The way her hands trembled as she mounted Mírnen, her white mare. The way her mantle rippled behind her as the company began the journey to the Havens. The way a tear fell to the ground as she looked up for a last goodbye. _

A bird's song broke into my reverie. I was wandering outside my room in Imladris, briefly allowing myself to slip into a nostalgic daydream. I felt my mother's touch, all the way from Valinor; saw her dim reflection when I looked in the mirror; heard her voice speaking through my own at times. She had promised she would see me again when I rode the ships to Valinor—oh, how long that seemed! I missed her, having not seen her for many a mortal's lifetimes, and knowing it would be many more until I saw her again.

Years ago, in 2509, my mother had been waylaid by orcs while travelling to Lôrien, where her kin lived. The orcs had scattered her party and captured her, and before my brothers were able to rescue her, she had suffered much at their hands. I remembered the whole of it vividly. Elladan and Elrohir had brought her home, her arm torn open and bloody. Father had healed her bodily, so that there was not a trace of the ragged, hardly Elven thing they had rescued. But my mother had been too wounded in soul to have any delight left for the things of this world, and had chosen to leave us for the pleasures of Valinor.

And that was the moment I was reliving in the gardens of Adar. I was happy to be in the house of my father once more; I had just returned from a long visit with my grandparents, my mother's parents, Celeborn and Galadriel. But being home brought back too many memories, and I had not realised till I had returned that my journey to my relatives in Lothlorien had been as much to escape the memories as out of joy to see them.

I wandered aimlessly until I rounded a large ash tree, almost colliding with a young Man who was sitting on the mossy forest floor, resting his back against the tree trunk. An involuntary scream of surprise escaped me: I had never seen him before, and it surprised me to find an intruder in a garden I thought to be private.

My first thought was flight, and I took a step backwards to flee, but before I could go further, he sprang to his feet, calling to me, "Tínuviel!" as if it were my name.

I paused, cocking my head. "Why do you call me by that name, milord?" I asked.

His forehead creased and uncreased quickly, and he took a cautious step closer, his cheeks a little pink. "Because at first I thought you to be Lúthien the Fair, of whom I had been singing." I saw a small harp lying in the grass beside the tree. "But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness."

I thought of how Lúthien had sacrificed her love for immortality for her love for Beren. Many had told me of the uncanny likeness I bore to the famed Elven Nightingale. I had never seen her, and anyway, would have been unable to judge for myself. "So many have said," I told him. "However, I am not she. But mayhap my fate will not me unlike hers." I was jesting. "But who are you, milord?"

"Estel I was called," he said, pulling himself up. "But I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir, Lord of the Dunedain." He recited the titles with an air of juvenile pride. It annoyed me, and I gave him my best imitation of a Galadriel _stare_.

It must have worked, because his face flushed red again. "Then we are akin from afar," I said. "I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond, and also called Úndomiel."

Aragorn's eyebrows lifted. "Often it is seen that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure. Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers, for though I have dwelt in their house from childhood, I have heard no word of you. How comes it that we have never met before? Surely your father has not kept you locked away in his hoard?"

"No, of course not," I said, looking to the East, where Lothlôrien lay. I had enjoyed my stay there. Celeborn and Galadriel had done all they could to ensure me a pleasant visit. But the roads had grown perilous, and Adar had sent for me, for had I not returned then, we might have been cut off from each other by war, or if I had tried to return, my fate might have been as my mother's, or worse. "I have dwelt for a time in the land of my mother's kin in Lothlôrien. It is many years since I walked in Imladris."

He did a double take, his eyes flicking from me to the east. I smiled—nearly giggled—at the astonishment in his eyes. A mortal could not understand that the Elves do not age—though I was hundreds of years older than he was, I appeared about his age or younger.

"Do not wonder, milord," I said. "For the children of the Eldar have the life of the Valar."

He blushed yet a third time. I held his gaze serenely for a moment, then we both broke out laughing. It was then I looked at him—truly looked at him. He was taller than me by nearly a head, and was long and thin, clad in Elven clothes that appeared to have seen the elements repeatedly. His eyes were grey, but like crystal, clear as glass and as piercing as the stars. Long dark hair that touched his shoulders moved a little in the twilight breeze.

"Hiril nín2?" Lambë was calling me.

I usually do not go when she calls; I usually let her come to me; but though we laughed, the air was thick with something, and Lambë was a welcome excuse. "I must go, milord," I said, and, gathering my skirts, left him where he stood. I looked back just before I turned round the tree. He was looking back at me with a wistful expression on his face. I lifted a hand in farewell, and was gone.

I saw Aragorn many times after that. We often met in the banquet hall, or in the corridors of Imladris, or, more often, in the library. We seldom spoke, save for courteous greeting, but I saw something in his eyes—something he would have kept hidden, I think.

I did not tell anyone about it—only scarcely allowed myself to believe it, so incredible did it seem. I cared for him—as a friend—and if Adar learned of his feelings, I feared for Aragorn. Adar did not approve of marital union between Elves and Men. It was not done, in his eyes, though there had been two such marriages—Lúthien Tínuviel and Beren the One-Handed; Irdil Celebrindal and Tuor. I did not want Adar's wrath to come upon Aragorn or his mother, who also dwelt with us in Imladris: Gílraen, daughter of Dírhael and Ivorwen.

It was not long after that Lady Gílraen had an air of heaviness about her. I wondered if she knew of Aragorn's passion, and feared, as I did, the possible repercussions. While my father would never be unjust to any he had accepted into his household, general disfavour might be their punishment.

One night, I found my father alone in the garden, and called him softly. "Ada?"

"Aye, Tíndomerel." He did not turn, but stared at a statue of a dancing woman as if he could not look away.

"What troubles you?" I asked. "What is the matter?"

He finally looked at me, and I read in his eyes the weight of his burden. "I fear for you," he said. "I have just spoken with the son of Isildur—I pray not too late. I never should have granted them shelter, Tíndomerel."

"You could not have turned them away," I said. "You are no Man; you do not have the cruelty they have. You could not have turned a young mother, bearing her child in her arms, away from your gate, knowing she was bereft of husband and home—you could not have done it."

"Had I known… I could have killed him."

"Not a baby, Ada. Not a baby." I shook my head. No one could be so cruel, and the Elves can be the cruellest of all creatures.

"I could have killed them both."

"I do not love him, Ada. I do not return his love."

"But you will. You cannot help your heart. You are destined to love him, and I…" his voice broke. "I am destined to go to your mother and tell her: _Your daughter will not come._"

I looked away, thinking of Adar's hesitation on the steps of Imladris. "You have known, haven't you, Ada? All this time… you knew."

"I knew."

"Who am I?" I begged on impulse. "Who will I be?"

"You are my daughter. And you will be…" He looked away.

The unsaid words hung on the air. _A mortal_.

I left him there. I went to my rooms and lay on my bed. I did not love him. I knew that. But if Adar spoke—he could not be telling the truth. I could not choose death for anyone… a life of pain? Even for love I could not…

…could I?

_I was standing in the meeting-place of millions of roads. They spun around me, leading in every direction; I could see the Misty Mountains down a path, the Seas down another, Gondor down another. When I would focus on a whirling path, I would stop, and the end could be seen as if it were a hand's breadth away._

"_Arwen!" My mother was at the end of a path, calling to me. Her shining white robes shone like the Sun in the Light of the Valar, and blew frantically in the breath of a monstrous wind._

"_Nana!"_

_Adar was down yet another path, beckoning me. "Arwen…."_

"_Ada—" I lifted an arm to wave to him—to tell him I was coming—but my billowy sleeve fell across my face, and when I pulled it away, there was yet another path. Elladan… Elrohir… Galadriel… Celeborn…. _

_I turned slowly in a circle. Lambë… Bragolcú… Erlin… Elves past, present, and future called me, held their hands out to me…._

_A hand on my shoulder made my surroundings vanish. It was Aragorn. His eyes met mine, and I heard him as if he were speaking…_ Come with me, Arwen.

_And I was powerless. He took my hand and led me down yet another path… I saw we were walking through the streets of the White City, but the end was Rath Dínen. Lúthien stood at the doorway, her white mantle filling the crypt with an eerie glow. I shrieked and pulled away from him, but he clutched after me—grabbed my sleeve to stop me. _

_I tore away, ran up the path in the direction of Adar. But the path somehow switched—I was running straight into Aragorn's arms. He wrapped them around me, clinging desperately as I struggled to get free. Then he released me, so suddenly I tripped backwards. But I steadied myself before I fell, and stared at him. He was slowly backing away, calling with his eyes, his voice… "Arwen."_

_I tried to run away, but it was useless. I gave in and ran towards him. "Wait!" He was so far away now. He held a hand out to me…_

_All the Elves of the paths reached for me, clutching at me. My mother grabbed my sleeve and screamed, "No!" Her face was streaked with tears. I fought them off, and raced on to Aragorn. _

_I ran—and ran—and ran—and ever Aragorn was before me, holding his hands out to receive me. _

I opened my eyes. The ceiling above me was such a start after my dreams, that I jumped. I sat up, and blinked. Things couldn't change in one night. Things couldn't be different.

But they were. I loved him.

"Lambë!" I needed living reassurance after the horrors of my dreams.

She entered quickly. "Are you all right?" she asked worriedly. "I thought I heard a cry."

"I dreamed," I said. "That was all."

"Would you like something to drink, milady?" she asked. "I'll get you some wine, Arwen; you look pale."

I touched my cheek. It was cold as ice. I nodded.

I got up, brushed my hair, and changed out of my rumpled gown into a simple grey robe. After Lambë returned with the wine, I drank it, laid the empty cup on the table, and slipped out the door to the nearby gardens. Adar and Aragorn stood by the gave of Gílraen, who had recently passed on, conversing quietly.

I neared them, my bare feet silent in the lush grass. Both of them seemed troubled, and I didn't wish to disturb them. Adar put a hand to his brow. His face was full of anguish. His lips moved, but I couldn't catch his words. After a few moments, he said, loud enough for me to hear, "The years will bring what they will. We will speak no more of this until many have passed. The days darken, and much evil is to come."

He swept on, not allowing Aragorn another word.

Aragorn turned and saw me. He turned to leave, but I raced after him.

"Mas ledhiach3?" I asked when I'd caught up with him.

"Arwen…" he said, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. It was customary… all court folk did this… yet it felt different than Ergil or Bragolcú… it meant more. And he called me Arwen… when did I become Arwen to him? Not milady… not Lady Arwen… just Arwen.

"Man na nat4?" I asked.

"I must leave here."

Something very sharp pierced something in my chest. "What? Is it my father? Has he driven you away? He can't—he mustn't—"

I turned to run after Adar, but Aragorn had not let go of my hand, and he used it to pull me back to him. "He does not drive me away, Arwen. I go freely. It is my fate."

I looked up at him through my lashes. "Until you are King, you must wander alone." I saw it, in his eyes, like a mirror… the passage of years stretching out like the paths in my dream… and leading to Rath Dínen… but not ending there.

"Then we must wait for it, Arwen." Arwen again.

"We?"

"Will you not wait for it?"

I was silent. Suddenly he looked tired… so much older.

"Don't give answer now," he said. "When we meet again…"

Again he kissed my hand, and started to walk away.

I cleared my throat, and he turned. "Milady?"

"I will wait for you, Aragorn Estel-nín."

He stared at me for a moment… at my mouth. For a moment, I thought he would kiss me. I wanted him to. But he did not. He merely murmured, "Meneg hannaid5," and left.

1. _"Harthon gerithach aeair vilui:" _May you have kind seas

2. _Hiril nin_: milady

3. _Mas ledhiach_: Where are you going?

4. _Man na nat_: What is it?

5. _Meneg hannaid_: A thousand thanks


	3. Growing Pains: Eowyn

Chapter I: Growing Pains

Chapter I: Growing Pains

01 March, 3007

I was born in the year of 2995. Hilandia says that my mother, Théodwyn, had a hard time in the birth—much harder than with my older brother, Éomer. I'm sorry. It's not as if I had anything to do with it, but I hate to have caused her pain. Hilandia also says that Éomer, who was four, stared at me for almost a quarter of an hour before finally asking her, "Can you put it back? I wanted a brother."

I am not sure whether I believe her, as Éomer has no memory of it. He insists he liked me from the first—though I'm not sure I believe _that_, either.

My most vivid memory of Mother is the day she died. I was twelve years old, and that moment changed my life.

I slipped out of the house, climbed over the wall, and landed with a thump on the other side. Hilandia, the fat housekeeper, ran out of the house, stopping a moment to puff. I was not particularly eager to respond to her command to come to her; it was more than likely that she wanted me to help her with the dishes or some other chore. Ever since Mother had taken ill, I'd been enlisted more and more to help, and now that she was so sick she had to stay in bed, I had to do practically all of it.

That's not quite fair, as Hilandia did her fair share. But a lot of the servants had left us after my father was killed, and all that were left were some of the men from his eored, and could not be prevailed upon to help with the dishes.

Because of this, Hilandia and I had been mutual enemies all my life, and it served both of us right. Before Mother was too sick to play, we had teamed up on her together—getting in suits of armour and chasing her out of the house, throwing pinecones from the tree I was in the process of climbing, and switching the salt and sugar containers while she was cooking.

At the top of the tree, I reached for my stash of pinecones in the niche of the tree. I had been saving a monster cone for almost five weeks, and now I was sufficiently irritated enough to use it.

Hilandia walked to the gate and opened it. "Éowyn, you vixen!" she shouted, looking around for me.

I rolled my eyes. As I was taking aim, Éomer followed Hilandia outside. "Éowyn!" he called in the direction of my tree. "Get down, now!"

I scrambled to obey, dropping the cone in my haste. Hilandia spotted me as I neared the ground, and raced to meet me. Hardly had my feet touched earth when she grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip only motherlike figures can manage, and dragged me into the house. Éomer followed behind, assuming his seventeen-year-old-quite-grown-up-elder-brother role.

Hilandia pulled me into the house, through the halls past horsemen that had nothing better than giggle at the young woman of the house, behind a tapestry, and into Mother's room. I yanked loose then, and scowled at Hilandia. "I wanted her to bring you, Éowyn," Mother explained as Hilandia made a hasty exit. "You'll have to listen to her when I'm gone."

"Gone?" I had known Mother was sick… but the thought of her dying had never occured to me. "No… Mother, you're going to get better. You look better, Mother." And she did—yesterday she had been pale and weak; today she had more colour than usual, she was almost flushed. Her grey eyes were brilliant, sparkling like crystal.

"No," Mother shook her head sadly. "I'm not. And I need you to promise me you won't forget me."

"How could I forget you, Mother?" I asked.

"I didn't mean that sort of forget," she said. "I don't want you to forget what I've taught you. I'm sending you and Éomer and Hilandia to Edoras, to your uncle, Théoden. You will be in a world very different from the one here… and I want you to stay strong."

"I promise," I said, digesting what she'd said. I had been to Edoras when I was little, but I didn't remember it. Éomer had gone with my father many times since, so he remembered a lot, and was friends with many of the men there.

"Now give me a kiss, Éowyn."

I pressed my lips to her forehead, and it was then I realised how cold she was… like ice. It frightened me. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to warm her, but her whole body was just as cold. She stroked my hair. "You remind me so much of my mother," she said, "Morwen of Lossarnach."

I smiled weakly. "Yes, Mother."

"You have her faults, too," she said. "Her pride and her curiosity."

I shook my hair away from her hands. I didn't like being told my faults. "Yes, Mother."

"Now go, and call Éomer."

I found him sitting in the hall. "Mother wants you," I told him.

"Go help Hilandia," he said, trying to shoo me away. I headed off down the hall, rounded the corner, then peeked around. Éomer was disappearing past the tapestry into Mother's chamber.

I crept back and sat just outside, in hearing distance.

"—arranged for you to go to your uncle's," she was telling him. "You will be one of the Mark, and Éowyn will aid the King."

"Yes, Mother."

"You must be there for your sister, Éomer. She will be unaccustomed to the hierarchy there, and how women are treated. Look out for her. She has inherited so much of the Eorl pride, and it will be so hard for her—be sensitive to that! She loves you, Éomer, and she will follow all your honourable commands, but only those. Support her!"

"Mother," Éomer sounded a little annoyed. "Have you no words of warning for me, as well?"

"No, son. You do not need my counsel save : Look to your sister! You have your horses and your companions, but Éowyn has nothing save honour, and she must keep it. Look to your sister!"

Éomer's voice had tears in it, the choked edge. "Mother—"

"Call your sister."

He emerged from the room so quickly I scarcely had time to leap to my feet, and I almost tripped. Éomer glared at me and aimed a cuff my way, but I dodged easily, thanks to several years of practice.

I approached Mother's bedside again. Éomer stayed beside, weeping unashamedly. I didn't turn to give him privacy for his tears. "You will be tall," she said, touching my blond braid. She turned to Éomer, and tried to say something, but couldn't quite mange it. She fell back against the pillow, her face suddenly losing all its vividness.

She smiled, looking at something beyond us. "Éomund…"

And was gone.

There was a loud silence as I stared at her. "Mother?" I whispered at last.

Éomer gave a sort of moan. "She's _dead_, Éowyn."

My knees suddenly buckled and I fell. I knew I should cry—I wanted to cry—but I couldn't. I was frozen inside. I couldn't move.

I looked up at Éomer, who had pulled the bed sheet over her. He stared at me, his face wet with tears, the front of his tunic dowsed. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded.

"Mother…" I whispered.

I saw our father, for a moment, in his eyes, as he dragged me up and shook me. "She's dead, Éowyn!" he said. "Mother is dead!"

"Why did she die?" I managed to gasp.

"Father."

"What?" I frowned.

"She loved him, Éowyn," he said, drawing the coverlet back so he could look at her face. "She missed him."

I looked away. Father had died when I was ten. My few memories of him were very dim and unpleasant. I had done my best to forget, but I couldn't help remember.My father had been determined to go into the mountains and destroy a band of orcs who had taken up residence there.

"_Éomund, that's suicide!" Mother said in a pleading tone. _

_I hid behind Mother's huge skirt, looking at him, standing on the porch with his band of men behind him. He was very tall, with fierce brown eyes and golden hair that was whipping around his face in the biting wind. I could feel tiny flakes of snow on my upturned face. It was cold, and my fingers were trembling as I balled them, rubbing them against my skirt to keep them warm. Éomer stood beside us, silent and grim. _

"_Théodwyn, I must! The orcs will destroy us all if I don't! It's only a small band—no harm will be done. I won't even lose one man."_

_Mother drew herself up. She was almost as tall as my father, though she slumped so much you hardly noticed it. "Then let me go, too."_

_My father laughed. "You?"_

"_I can ride! I can fight! I am as able as any man in your riding! Please take me, Éomund!"_

_My father shook his head. "Théodwyn, if you sought to be a shield-maiden, you shouldn't have married me. No woman of mine is going to be a soldier. That goes for my daughter, too!" he yelled as he pulled me from behind Mother. He bent down until he was looking into my face. "Do you understand me, Éowyn?" _

_I could smell the traces of wine on his breath—a bracer for the orc-hunt. _

"_But Father," I said, "I'm going to be a shield-maiden. Éomer is teaching me to wield a sword, and—"_

_He slapped me. Mother flinched, and her freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose as she paled. "Éomund, she's only—"_

"_Théodwyn, I won't have an upstart for a daughter—or a wife."_

_He stood up. I fingered the red mark on my cheek. It didn't hurt—much. My tears were from pride, not pain. _

_Father turned towards his horse. Mother chased after him, grabbed his arm and said words only they could hear. _

"_No, Théodwyn," he yelled in a voice that carried over the wind to me. He shoved her away fiercely and mounted his horse. Éomer bit his lip in hidden anger as our father rode away, followed by his best horsemen. _

_Mother fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands, sobbing. _

_It was the last time any of us saw him alive. _

"Why did she miss him?" I asked.

Éomer shook his head. "I don't know."

"I don't miss him," I said defiantly, tossing my head. I was daring him to reprimand me.

"Neither do I," he said quietly.

I was surprised to hear that, and said so.

He stared to reply, but just then Hilandia walked in. She stopped short when she saw the still, white figure lying on the bed. "Asleep?" she said, fiddling a strand of her grey-blond hair that had escaped her bun.

"No," Éomer said quietly.

"Dead?" she whispered.

I was silent.

"Yes," Éomer said.

Hilandia screamed. "My lady's dead?" she shrieked. "My lady—the one I brought up with me own two hands—the one I cared for and served all me life—my lady's dead?"

Éomer nodded. Hilandia ran out of the room, still screaming.

A moment later, Éomer left, muttering something about taking a walk. As for me, I ran to the stables and took my horse, Windfola, out into the fields and rode him long and hard, trying to imagine life without mother. I didn't want to imagine it.

When I got back hours later, the men had removed Mother from her chamber to be sent to Edoras, where she would be entombed with the rest of her family.

The next morning, Hilandia bathed me and gave me a woolen gown belonging to Mother. It was heather green, with golden edging and horses running around the bottom of it. "It's too big for me," I laughed—my mother was taller than me, and larger around the chest, as well.

"You'll grow into it," Hilandia promised.

I didn't really care about the fit—it was thick and warm in the chilly weather. I hugged the long sleeves to me as we mounted our horses and began the day-and-a-half journey—if you were moving slowly, as we were—to Edoras. Windfola, my young and beautiful stallion, was a newly-broken bay from Edoras. His parents had been presents from my Uncle Théoden for my mother—his sister. We had had the horses less than a week before there was evidence of their activity. The mare gave birth to twin foals—Windfola, a stallion, and a filly, Míine. My father had given Windfola to me for my fifth birthday.

We camped that night close enough to Edoras to see pinpricks of light coming from the famed Golden Hall. I wished we could ride through the night, and be there the sooner, but old bones like Hilandia's could not tolerate so long in the saddle. I had, though, the promise of arriving at my new home before noon the next day.

My first impression of Edoras was men. Lots and lots of men. All over the place, members of the éored were grooming, feeding, or riding their horses; they were eating, talking, laughing; calling out across the courtyard to their comrades. There were men at my home, of course, but this was the capitol, the symbol of Rohan, and necessarily had more forces—ergo, more men. These men were dirty, swearing in the heat of the day; their beards and long locks were greasy and stringy.

The gates clanged behind us, and we dismounted. Edoras was built on a slope, and the houses were dug into the hill to keep them level, but the ground was uneven, and after an hour on a horse, it was all I needed to set me swaying and rocking, trying to keep my balance.

A little ruby-haired boy who looked scarcely six took our horses' leads. "I will take them to the stables, milady," he told me when I questioned his actions.

"Take care of him," I called after him.

"Yes, milady," he replied, his blue eyes wide with solemnity.

An older man, perhaps Hilandia's age, with a red beard came down the hill towards us. Hilandia nodded to him. "Lord Háma," she said.

"Hilandia." His voice was gruff, but gentle. He turned to Éomer. "You can be no other than the son of Éomund."

Éomer bowed. "I am, sir."

I coughed quietly.

Éomer jumped, then indicated me. "My sister, Éowyn."

"Milady," Háma said, taking my hand and pressing his lips to my fingertips. "May you find as much joy in the horses here as your name suggests." Éowyn is Rohirric for _horse-lover_.

Honoured to be treated as nobility, I blushed. "I'm sure I will, Lord Háma."

My speaking his name seemed to remind him. "Of course!" he said. "I have not introduced myself. I am Háma, The Door-Warden. I have been sent from the Golden Hall to receive you."

He took us up the hill towards the huge building at the top—Meduseld. The huge, deep stone steps leading to it were roughly cut, and I snagged the embroidery on the hem of my dress. I was sorry to rip the thread, but hoped Hilandia could mend it later.

Once at the top of the steps, in the wide open area in front of the door, I turned around and looked around. The hill that is Edoras rises up like an island in the middle of a vast valley surrounded by mountains. As massive as that hill is, it is nothing to the immensity of that valley. I was an ant, crawling across a horse's back, when I looked out at the scenery around us.

Háma put a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie. "I can guess your thoughts, milady," he said. "I never feel so small, so insignificant, as when I try to take in this view."

I met his eyes, surprised that he could read my mind so easily.

"Come," he said. "I will take you to your uncle."

He led us through a hall filled with tapestries, a burning fire in the middle. As my eyes accustomed to the dark,

He sat in a throne, gazing at us placidly. I blinked a moment, surprised at his small stature. My mother had told me stories of a tall, red-headed brother with eyes like a stormy-sky—this man was hunched, with a dirty blond-grey beard untrimmed and untidy. All his hair was still there, but it was as unkempt as his beard, and much the same colour, bound with a golden band. He drew his cloak of rabbit-skins close to him despite the sun that was beating down outside the hall.

Next to him, at his feet, sat a smaller man. His eyes were beady; his hair was unwashed, greasy, and had white flakes in it that I sincerely hoped were just dandruff; his lips were chapped and blue. I felt slightly sickened when I looked at him for very long—was that last night's supper on his tunic? It turned my stomach.

Éomer leaned down and whispered, "_That's Gr__í__ma, Th_é_oden's advisor."_

I replied, _"I think he's dwimmer."_

Éomer spoke first. "Milord, I am Éomer, son of your sister Théodwyn. She has passed into the halls of your fathers, but before she died, asked that you receive her children into your care, adopting them as your own."

"I expected as much, and places have been prepared for you. Could I do otherwise?" Théoden asked. "This," he indicated a man I had not seen before, as he had been standing in the shadows, "is your cousin, Théodred."

Théodred was tall—taller than Éomer, I think. He had long, curling blond hair that came to his shoulders, and a golden circlet around his forehead to show his nobility. His eyes were a keen shade of bright blue that sent shivers down my spine.

"This is my sister Éowyn, milord," Éomer said, indicating me.

Théoden's reaction was not unlike a shrug. I whispered an angry oath that, had I said it any louder, probably would have forced him to notice me. I had learned it from my father. Théodred apparently heard, as he raised his eyebrows and appeared to be biting back a chuckle. He nudged his father, hard, and said, "Welcome, cousin Éowyn. We welcome you to Edoras."

"You may aid me in my old age," Théoden grumbled. "I cannot walk as I once did."

I bowed. Gríma took a long, hard look at me. It seemed to say he would see more of me that I wanted him to. Hilandia led me away, muttering to herself.

As I changed from my heavy travelling clothes, a girl about my own age entered my chambers. She had curly red hair that framed her face like a halo, and vibrant green eyes. I stared indignantly at the stranger who had entered _my_ chambers while I was _getting undressed_.

The girl didn't seem ashamed or apologetic in the least, even though I wasn't wearing anything but my chemise. "Hello! You must be Éowyn!"

She spoke in a thick Dunharrowine accent, slurring the Eo together to be a long A.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"Can't you guess?" she said brightly.

I stared at her some more. "The devil," I suggested, pulling a frock over my head.

The girl pulled it down and began to lace up the sides. "I'm Weynia, Hilandia's daughter." I seemed to recal Hilandia having spoken of a daughter living in Edoras. "I'm supposed to be your lady-in-waiting, or something—let me help you with that."

I yanked away and tied the cords in a knot. I'd dressed myself since I was six years old, and had no intentions of stopping now at twelve. "I have a better idea," I said. "Let's just be friends."

My first night in Edoras was one of the longest in my life. My chamber consisted of a large bedroom and a small dressing room. My bed was huge—you could have exercised six or seven horses on it simultaneously with ease, I thought. You had to use a step to get up into it; it was piled so high with skins I couldn't get comfortable until I had kicked all but a few off the sides. The woollen blankets were soft and warm, and it was not cold that kept me awake,lying covered up to my chin with cosy warmth, studying a ceiling I could not see in the darkness, but knew must be scarcely nine metres above my head.

I had never slept anywhere but my own bed at home, and this bed was so much more luxurious in comparison to the innocent cot I slept on. But I checked my thoughts—_This is home_, I told myself. _What was before can be no more._

My life at Edoras fell into gradual routine. Weynia woke me; I dressed; we both helped Théoden to the hall for breakfast. Then we helped him to his dais in the hall. I had about three hours then to wander the halls, read, and speak with the men until luncheon. Then I was free to ride with Théodred and Éomer until supper, after which I helped him to bed.

After that, I was free of my duties. Sometimes I rode in the darkened fields under the starlight, thinking of my mother and wondering about the future; sometimes I teased the guards (employing techniques my mother had taught me for pranks on Hilandia) or talked with Éomer. Théodred enjoyed my company, and even taught me sword-fighting. I became an expert, using a blade Théodred had given me.

One would think that working and living in such close quarters, Weynia and I would have become close friends. But while I was fascinated with horses and swords, she cared only for men and gowns and fancy trimmings.

As the years went by, I fulfilled Mother's prediction and became very tall. I was taller than Éomer by half-a-head, but Théodred was an inch above me. I had my father's eyes—the wild, brown eyes that threw sparks when angered. I had my mother's wonderful blond hair that grew thick and shiny, and hung down to my waist like a horse's mane. And I became beautiful. My mirror told me every day; the suddenly fawning manner of the guards told me; Hilandia told me; Weynia told me; Éomer and Théodred told me.

None of my new beauty changed my wild need to be included. For the most part, Éomer stayed true to Mother's command not to shun me. He took me on as many rides as he could without being mocked. But neither Theordred or Eomer appreciated the thought of a girl in her teens coming along with them, and I tried to understand. I was years younger than both of them, and I knew it must be embarrassing for me to tag along all the time. But I still wanted to be included.

Too proud to beg, I resorted to threats—and they weren't empty. Plenty of times I tagged along without being seen, and took note of what they did and who they were with, and I would tell Hilandia all about it—_unless_ I got to go next time. Other times, when dirt ran low, I would substitute foods in their bags for rocks, or put salt in their wine and water. Rarely did these deeds go unpunished, and upon their return—usually sped by hunger or thirst—I would do well to hide out until the whole thing blew over.

Five years passed this way. When I was seventeen, Éomer and Théodred left on a trip to Helm's Deep. I was very lonely; they were my only true companions—Weynia and Hilandia were inadequate company.

The second night after they left, I retired early, having nothing else to do. I blew out my lamp and got into bed. I never locked my door, as Éomer and Théodred's chambers were only down the hall, and I feared nothing in the house of my uncle.

I was asleep almost instantly, the dreariness and loneliness producing a kind of weary stupor in me. I slept a deep, dreamless sleep, and did not know anything for hours.

In the middle of the night, I woke and sat up. The door was slowly opening, as if whoever was opening it was trying to do so without waking anyone. I slipped out of bed and wrapped myself in a cloak.

"Who's there?" I whispered. My voice sounded loud in the stillness.

I made out Gríma's slight, stooping form. I felt—understandably—uneasy, but remained outwardly calm.

"Master Gríma," I said. "What brings you here at such a time?"

He shut the door, and I heard the latch click as he locked it. "You, milady."

I stiffened, and backed against my bed. "I do not like your answer. I'm a little young to receive your attentions, Master Gríma."

He laughed—a little too merrily, I thought. He seemed drunk. "Why, you dolt. What do you think I'm after with you?"

I didn't want to find out. I moved to the window, where I kept my sword in the ledge. Besides, if necessary I could always leap out of it. The drop and consequent death was preferable to Gríma. "I think the only thing I can think when a man calls on me in the middle of the night."

He took a few steps closer. I lifted my arms across my chest, gripping my neck in my hands. "I'm not going to hurt you."

I took a shaky breath as he neared me. "You shouldn't be here."

He took one of my hands and pressed it to his lips. "Don't run from me, Éowyn."

"Please, sir, don't call me that."

He pulled my arm, drawing me towards him. "Isn't that your name?"

I tugged away. "I'm not your Éowyn, and I never will be. Now leave me alone or I'll—"

"You'll what?" he asked in a dangerous tone. I bit my lip. "Hilandia and Weynia are in the kitchen. Your brother and cousin are far away. Who will come to save you?"

"Háma—the guards…" I began, but my voice trailed off.

"…are too far away," he finished for me. "You can't escape me, Éowyn." He reached forward, both arms out, and I reached behind me, grabbing the sword and whirling it in front of me.

"Get out," I snapped. "And don't you ever come back to me again. Éomer will deal with you upon his return."

He frowned at me, but skulked away, hissing an oath. I locked the door behind him and sat upright in my bed until the sun rose, thinking hard.

When Théodred and Éomer returned, I told them what had happened. It was night, and we were standing on the porch, looking out over Rohan. It was easier to talk honestly with none of us making eye contact, deliberately facing away.

Éomer's reaction was fury; Théodred's was pity. "I swear on my life there will be never be a time when you are alone and unprotected," Éomer promised. "I won't let him touch you."

"I will protect you, Éowyn," Théodred agreed.

As the moon set, we stood there, my brother on one side, my cousin on the other. It was easy to believe, then, that everything would be all right, in the kingdom, in the halls… that life would be solved by their simple promise to keep an eye on me.

Time went by…. Nothing made any day different from the one before or the one to come, except for changes in the people. King Théoden was less of the former warrior and more of the half-dead aged man one sees in shepherds' huts. I had grown to love him, and it hurt me to know he would die, and very soon, if no one rescued him. He was never without Gríma, who whispered words in such ways that he wove a net of despair around the hearer's heart, and this he had done to the king. Thus did Gríma earn the name _Wormtongue_.

I noticed the change in Gríma's attitude to me, as well. After that night, he began to follow me more openly, and allowed no man but himself to near me, when he could help it. One Lord Éothain began to show me attention. I didn't appreciate it, but a week after he proposed marriage to me—which I indignantly refused—he was found dead in his chambers. The court physician said natural causes, but rumours of poison circulated the court—especially since the physician was one of Gríma's chattels. I wondered that he didn't murder Théodred as well, for he was closer than a brother. Or perhaps he feared the King's son to be too much of a risk.

Théodred had also changed. He no longer teased me or treated me as the little girl I no longer was. Once he had often picked me up and put me on his shoulder, or grabbed me by the waist and tickled me as I tried to flee his wrath after a prank of mine had been discovered. But now he treated me as a lady of the court. He spoke to me seldom in public, except a nod of hello when we ran into one another in the hallways—sometimes literally, given my habit of running headlong from place to place—or when we met in the stables. With Éomer, he talked to me—but only cordially. We were now lady and lord, not cousins.

But Éomer—dear Éomer—stayed the same. We were taller, but we were still brother and sister. When he wasn't busy, he came to my chambers, and he spent time talking, or taught me sword fighting—the more I learned, the easier I was about Gríma.

Often I would hear the patter of footsteps in halls behind me. I dared not leave my door unlocked. In the still of the night, sometimes I would hear a hand turn the handle, testing it. It was always locked, yet I dreaded the day he would catch me alone.

One night, I was standing at the wall, looking out over Rohan, admiring the view. As long as I lived in Edoras, I would never cease to be awestruck by the ocean of hills and mountains that surrounded us.

I heard a noise behind me, and whirled around, praying that it was not Gríma the Wormtongue.

It was Théodred. "I was a little afraid…" I began, but my voice trailed off.

He nodded, and came closer to me. I stepped back, until my back was pressed against the railing. He did likewise, and rested his hands on either side of the railing, trapping me. He and I were closer than we'd been for years, and it was a little unnerving. "Éowyn, I need to talk to you."

"Very well," I said, meeting his gaze evenly. "What is it?"

"We—Éomer and I—are being sent away." His voice was broken, and I saw tears glittering in his eyes.

"Where? Why?" I was afraid to hear the answer. How long would I be left in danger of Gríma this time?

"To the Westfold."

"No…" I whispered. "So far away…"

"It is a move by Gríma to get me away from you, I know it. He sees… he sees what I feel for you."

I swallowed and spoke carefully. "What is it that you feel for me?"

I looked down when I saw the look in his eyes. He spoke into my hair. "I love you."

My head came up with a jerk. "Théodred, are you mad? Gríma killed Éothain, and he'll kill you, too!" I turned around , looking out over the fields, trying to ignore his body pressing into my back. "Gríma has followed me for the last four years ago. You will die—and then he will come for me. Someday, Théodred, I will not have a sword. He will—"

I bit my lip, and clung to the railing so hard my knuckles turned white.

"What?" he asked.

_Oh, don't you know?_ I turned around and faced him again. "He's had the last eight years to ask Eomer or Theoden for my hand," I hissed. "I think if he were interested in marriage, he'd have said something by now."

He touched my cheek, and I leaned into his hand, shutting my eyes. "Éowyn," he murmured, "If you are affianced to the Prince of Rohan, Gríma won't—"

"Do you think Gríma cares if I am betrothed or not?" I asked. "He comes to my chambers nearly every night…."

"Won't you marry me, Éowyn? We can take care of him when I am King. We can forget there ever was a Gríma—ever was such a thing as dread—such a thing as fear—such things as pain, and death. I promise, as my wife, you will forget all of this."

I looked at him. I wanted to tell him that I loved him as my brother. Nothing more. I could never love him the way he wanted to—the way he loved me. But then a thought come to mind: _Wouldn't marrying a man you love like a brother be better than being taken by a man you hate like the devil?_

And Théodred looked so hopeful—so loving. Gríma and Éothain had had lustful eyes—Théodred's were full of love. It would be cruel to refuse him.

"I will marry you, Théodred," I said. The words were hard to say, but I forced them out. "Tell your father tomorrow—near Gríma. Make sure he knows. Perhaps he will leave me alone."

"All right, beloved." Théodred kissed my fingertips. "I will leave tomorrow—and I will come back to you, I swear."

"Thank-you." He leaned forward and kissed my lips. I pulled away, a little startled, but then leaned in and kissed him. After he drew away, I lay my head on his shoulder to discourage further kisses.

"Éowyn," he murmured into my hair, "Say you love me—just once—before I leave."

Obediently, I opened my mouth to say the words I did not… could not mean. I rationalised it by telling myself that I _did_ love him… just not in that way… and who knew? we would be spending the rest of our lives together… perhaps I would grow to love him that way.

But just then, we heard a sound behind us—a shod foot on the cold stone. We turned, still clasped together. It was Gríma.

I stiffened, and Théodred's arms tightened.

"Greetings, my prince; my lady," he nodded to us. "An uncommon time for a tete-a-tete, don't you think—in the middle of the night? I think, Théodred Prince, that your father will be very interested to hear what I have seen tonight."

I bit my lip, trying to hide my fear. Gríma would be sure to cause trouble for both Théodred and me, and I knew he would never let me be. We had to keep this from Théoden, at least until Theodred could speak to him about marriage. Théodred's arm tightened even more around my shoulders, and the other moved towards his sword hilt. "Get out of here, worm. Even you can find no evil in a betrothal. You will tell my father nothing we do not wish him to hear."

"Why not?" the Wormtongue asked, and I saw traces of a smile at his blue lips. "What would satisfy me more than the knowledge that the King knows the truth about his son and niece? That his niece is scheming to marry his son and steal his throne?"

I met his eyes, then, and spat angrily. "You are ridiculous. Theoden would see through that in a moment." I wish I could be as sure as I sounded… Theoden would believe anything his favourite said.

He took a step nearer and laughed at me—a cruel laugh. "I could be stopped, I suppose. We could make a bargain."

"I'm not bargaining with a snake," Theodred said. "My father should have been rid of you years ago."

Grima ignored Theodred and spoke to me. "I almost had you a few years ago, remember? Well, you will not fight me off a second time."

I pressed against Théodred in my efforts to back away from him. Théodred stepped forward, pushing me behind him. "No, Gríma," he said, drawing his sword. "You will never touch her."

Gríma glared at him, and gave a sound not unlike a hiss. Then he said, "I will have you, Éowyn, at the end of Théoden's reign! Don't look for your Prince to return—you _will_ be mine, and no Prince of Rohan will ever have you!" With that, he spun around and entered the house.

I stood, shaking uncontrollably, trying to calm myself. Théodred stroked my hair until I regained sufficient control of myself to draw a shaky breath—the first I'd taken, I think, since Gríma had first accosted us.

"Are you all right?" Théodred asked me.

"I… think so," I said, struggling to keep from crying—how could a shield-maiden cry? "But now you see," I choked, "What he wants…"

"It's all right," he said soothingly, still stroking my hair.

"What will I do without you two to protect me?" I asked him helplessly.

"You'll be fine. I am leaving before Éomer, and I will be back before Éomer has cause to leave," he promised me, kissing the bridge of my nose. "Go nowhere alone, go nowhere unarmed." Then he escorted me to my bedroom, and with a final kiss, I went to bed, still breathless from the night's activities.

The next morning, Théodred and his host prepared to leave. I went out to bid them farewell. Théodred called to me.

"Yes?" I asked, running to him, aware of Gríma's eyes watching me from afar.

"I do not think that I will return to this house again, Éowyn," he said slowly.

"You will come back!" I said emphatically. "Don't let Gríma's wicked words lead you to despair!"

"Nevertheless, Éowyn—if I do not return alive, promise me he will never touch you!"

"I would die first," I promised. Then he kissed my cheek, and left.

I watched them out of sight. _Théodred will return_, I told myself. _He has to._

They were gone less than a moment when I realised that I had never told Théodred I loved him.


	4. Glimmers of the Future: Arwen

Chapter II: …Glimmers of the Future

Chapter II: …Glimmers of the Future

24 June, 2980

It had been long since I had lain eyes on Aragorn—the Sun had set many times since he bade me farewell in Imladris. I was once again visiting my mother's kin in Lothlorien. It was cruel of Galadriel not to tell me that he had come… I would not have been taken by surprise, and perhaps some things would have been different now. I know she knew of his coming, for none can escape her comprehension in Lothlorien—she knows all that happens in thought and in deed.

I was lying under a tree, living in my dreams of my mother, kissing her tear-stained face once more, when I saw a Man coming towards me. I stood up, and realised it was Aragorn—more by sense than sight, for he looked nothing like I had remembered. He was clothed in silver and white, and his cloak was Elven-made. A white stone was bound on his brows. He might have been an Elf-lord; he had changed to something so much nobler than the youth who had taken me for Lúthien so many years ago.

"Arwen," he said, approaching me. I stood stock-still, unable to move.

"Aragorn!" I smiled. _It was so long ago. He can't still love me._ "Long years have passed since you and I have met."

"To me they are only yesterday," he said. "I have not forgotten you. So it is just like old times… I love you from afar, against your father's wishes, and unrequited by you."

I heard my voice from so many years ago. _I will not love him. Will you have my oath?_

"I do now," I whispered.

"What?" he asked, drawing even closer. Our faces were inches apart, and I had to look up to meet his eyes.

I flushed. "Melin le."

He looked awe-struck. I smiled.

"You silly child," I breathed. "I just said I loved you."

He took my hand. "Arwen—"

I put a finger to his lips. "Don't," I said. "Please don't speak."

I led him by the hand away from where Galadriel and Celeborn were watching. We went into the deeper part of the forest, where it was not watched. We went to where Lúthien had made her enchantment, and I told him the story of how Lúthien's father had not wanted her to wed the mortal Beren, so he had locked her in a flet. She had made an enchantment with wine and water that caused her hair to grow and touch the ground. She then cut it off and used it as a ladder to climb down.

He kissed me, suddenly, as we walked. It was strange to be so old, and yet to have never kissed. I revelled in the experience. And when he drew away, I kissed him. I held him close, under Hírilorn—the tree from which Lúthien had escaped. "Don't let me live forever," I begged. "Don't let me live alone."

"You won't," he promised.

That whole season, I do not think anyone lived in Lorien. We were the only ones alive in all of Lorien—nay, all of Middle-Earth! I supposed we ate and slept, but I remember none of it. I remember only a golden cloud of love. I remember that Aragorn counselled me to tell Adar of our love. I felt afraid to—he knew that we would, I knew, but telling him felt like plunging a knife into his heart. So I delayed, and revelled in my short season of love.

Later, we plighted our troth on the hill of Cerin Amroth, barefoot in the soft grass.

"Dark is the Shadow," I said, "Yet my heart rejoices, for you, Estel, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it."

I called him Estel, for he was to be our hope, and such was his name among those who'd known him before he knew his true identity. "Alas!" he replied, "I cannot foresee it, and how it is to come to pass is hidden from me. Yet if you say you hope, I will hope. And the Shadow I utterly reject. But neither, milady, is the Twilight for me; for I am a mortal, and if you cleave to me, Evenstar, the Twilight you must also reject."

It had come… the moment I had sword to Adar would never happen. It was time to give away my immortality, and for what—the love of a Man? So much pain… and all for him.

I held his questioning gaze steadily. I would not back down. "I will cleave to you, Dúnadan, and turn from the Twilight." Then I turned away from him, refusing to let him see the anguish as my face crumpled. "Yet there lies the land of my people and the long home of my kin…" I couldn't speak anymore. I didn't want Aragorn to hear the tears threatening in my voice.

We sent word to Imladris at last, telling Adar of my choice. Aragorn left me to go talk to him, and returned with word that Adar refused to give me in marriage to any man but the King of both Arnor and Gondor. We could not be wed until Sauron fell.

When he told me this, I burst into tears.

"Arwen, you cannot despair—it may yet come to pass—" Aragorn tried to console me. "You told me to hope—why can't you?"

I had to laugh, a little, in spite of my tears. I who had lived so long in this world was crying over a few more years! "Why must he ask this of you?" I said. "You know this may not happen for so many years…"

"But I will speed it along, if I may," he said. "I must leave you, Arwen. And I cannot return for a long time."

He kissed me, then, and left. Soon after, I returned to Imladris, and when I dismounted in the courtyard, Adar met me there. "Daughter," he greeted me. I saw tears on his cheek.

"You are sad."

"You will not return to Valinor with me."

"No," I said.

He hugged me, hard, and both of us shed more tears. Then he said, "I want you to know, daughter, that your choice may yet be reversed. You may still—"

I interrupted him. "No."

"Yet if you ever wish—"

"I will not wish."


	5. The Truth About Grima: Eowyn

Chapter II: The Truth About Gríma

Chapter II: The Truth About Gríma

26 February, 3018

The next morning, I made my way to the main door to meet with Háma. Théodred had mentioned at one time that Háma had known Gríma in the days of his youth, and I wanted to know what had gone wrong with him.

Háma and I walked onto the battlements and gazed out over Rohan, much as I had done last night with Théodred. The irony did not escape me, and I had to bite back a bitter smile. It did not take long for the conversation to turn to recent events, and Hama admitted that he knew upon whose orders Eomer and Theodred had been sent away.

"Why is he like that?" I asked when the conversation turned to Gríma. "What's wrong with him… what did I ever do to him?"

"Nothing," Háma assured me. "You've done nothing. He is… poisoned, milady."

"No," I said. "He is the poison_er_."

"Yes, milady—_now_," he agreed. "But it was not always so. Once he was… good. Like you and I. He loved… and was loved."

"How?" I said. "Who could ever love such a man? and how could he have ever truly loved?"

"I have known him a long time, when he was such as you and I," Háma answered. "He was a good man, milady. He was braver than most, stronger than most, more noble than most—the best man in the éored, I used to say." His eyes took on a peculiar glow as he reminisced. "He used to fight against the foe fearlessly, always willing to be in the thick of it, never wanting to play it safe." He sighed. "Few of us remember what he was like before it happened."

"What happened?" I asked. "How did he become so evil? How could someone like us… become someone like him?" The thought frightened me, and I needed Hama's assurance that it was impossible for me to become someone like Gríma.

"He… loved someone." Háma explained. Then he flushed slightly, and I sensed hesitation.

"Who was she?" I asked. "Do I know her?"

"A young woman…" Háma said. "She was… a lot like you, milady. Only not so cold."

I brushed off the insult, and asked again, "Who was she?"

"You need not know," he evaded. "It matters not."

"Tell me," I commanded.

"A lady… sister to the King… she was engaged to him."

I gasped… if it could be called a gasp. An intake of breath that made no noise, betrayed none of my horror. "Théodwyn?" I breathed. "My mother?"

"Yes, milady."

I swallowed. "Then what?" _I must force myself to hear this terrible tale, _I told myself.

"She was affianced to Gríma… and she betrayed him. It was the ideal match for her—the advisor of the King, you see. But Théodwyn was always spirited, and she fell in love with your father… She eloped with Éomund… and they left Edoras and went to live in a house your uncle provided."

I tried to picture Mother—sweet, gentle, kind Mother—with the sallow, sickly Gríma. Try as I might, the picture refused to come. "But how did he become like that?" I asked. "Why did that—"

"It was the beginning, milady," Háma said. "When he lost Théodwyn, he changed. He hated your mother. He suspected everyone and anyone that tried to help him—that felt sorry for him. And there were plenty to choose from. His hate for Théodwyn became hate for all women… and his distrust in well-meaning friends became distrust in everyone." Háma stopped and looked at me. "He never learned to forgive, milady. That is how he became who he is now. And anyone could become like him."

"No," I argued. "Not anyone. You couldn't. I couldn't. It's impossible."

"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Háma demanded. "Anyone that refuses to forgive—that cherishes and nurtures their hatred for so long, they forget life without it—they can't remember a time when there was no hate—anyone could become Gríma the Wormtongue: sick and decrepit, hurting in an attempt to revenge himself upon those who hurt him, and in the end, hurting no one but himself. True, it takes a long time. But it happens, milady. And it's never too late to come back. Even yet, Gríma could change for the better. He could forgive Théodwyn. He could become what he once was.

"There is little left of what he once was… but there still is, and perhaps it could fuel what might still be. Sometimes… I see it."

Hama's eyes were full of pain and pity. They glistened in the bright sun, and a tear trickled down his cheek. "What do you see?" I asked after a few moments of silence.

"The piece of him… that has not died—or been killed—or been trodden on. The part of him that wants to be free of the pain. I've seen it looking out of his eyes, screaming to be released. That part aches. Once, I tried to help him… I saw the piece, and I appealed to it. I asked him if he didn't want to be free… to speak to Théodwyin… to forgive her…"

"What did he do?" I asked as his voice trailed off.

"He spat at me, and told me to mind my own business."

"It sounds like him."

"You don't understand, milady. His vendetta against you has hardened you to any sympathy for him."

"Shouldn't it?" I demanded. "Am I wrong to fear and hate him?"

Háma ignored the question. "I want to help him, milady," he said. "I want to somehow take the remaining piece of his old life and give it back to him."

"You are a fool," I spat. I put both hands over my ears. "He is not human, Háma, I insisted, my voice too loud. "He is pure evil, through and through. There is nothing that could ever change him, and no one in their right mind would want to. He deserves death for what he has done. I don't understand why someone doesn't murder him like he murdered Éothain." I whirled to walk away.

"Éowyn…" Háma grabbed my shoulder, turned me around, and took my hands from my ears.

I stared at him in shocked silence, too stunned at his forwardness to say anything.

"I'm sorry. But you must listen to me, and I saw no other way but to force you."

Silence. I glared at him defiantly.

"Will you listen," Háma asked, "If I speak to you?"

I remained frozen, obstinately refusing to break my silence.

"I'll take that as a yes. You hate Gríma. And you have good reason to. But you are becoming full of hate—don't give me that look, Éowyn—just like Gríma did. And if you are not careful, you will let it poison you, as he did. _You will become what Gríma is._"

More silence.

"I'm done now," Háma said, "So if you want to leave, you may. I know you're mad at me."

I walked away, trying not to show how his words affected me.


	6. The Fire's Awakening: Arwen

**Chapter III: The Fire's Wakening**

**24 October, 3019**

I waited for Aragorn to return to me, but he did not for many years. The years passed slowly, more slowly than they ever had before in my life.

Things changed—in Rivendell and in the world. The One Ring, so Adar told me. And later, a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, came to live with us. He and some dwarves had visited us some half-century back, and he had occasionally dropped in for a month or two between times, but somehow I'd always been away. It was interesting to see one of the Shire, a land a few miles away where humans were unwelcome, and Elves thought of as an ancient myth. And yet, Aragorn's kin had spent so many years guarding them from the evils of Mordor… and they knew nothing.

Bilbo was a wonderful break from the solemnity of the Elves—he delighted us with poems in praise of the Valar and their kind—clumsily made, but reverent, for the most part. Bilbo's nephew, Frodo Baggins, was now the possessor of the Ring—if any but Sauron could wholly possess it. Suffice it to say he bore it, for a little while. Frodo remained in the Shire for some time after Bilbo came to us—a very long time, to a mortal.

But then Frodo and three of his kind made the trek to Rivendell, fleeing from Sauron's Nine Riders, who had learnt of the Ring's discovery and now made every attempt to regain it for their Dark Lord. For the valour displayed in the foursome, we had a banquet prepared some three days after their arrival. Aragorn had been their guide from the small village of Bree to the Ford, and I knew he would be there, so I came early to the banquet hall, and stood in the shadows.

Many passed me unseen, for I had eyes for no one but my beloved. There must have been servants preparing for the upcoming dinner, but I cannot remember anything but an empty hall, until…

Until a footstep on the floor made me turn to face the door. Until I saw him—Aragorn, returned from many journeys on many paths. Invisible to him, I examined him at my leisure. He was so changed—he was taller, sterner, older. No longer the youth I had known, his skin was darker, and his hair was flecked with grey. But his eyes—his clear, crystalline eyes—time had left their piercing gaze untouched. The same beautiful eyes that I had given my heart to were sweeping the hall, searching for me, hoping I would be there, afraid—I saw the fear in his eyes—that I would not, that I had in his absence forgotten him.

Then he saw me.

I had to restrain myself from running across the hall, in full view of the rest of the Elves and guests, and throwing myself on him, kissing him, and telling him I could never, never, never forget him.

Instead, I slowly approached him, and held out my hands to him. He took them and pressed both of them to his lips—our first physical contact since we had parted ways in Lothlorien. Then he pulled me closer to him, so that our faces almost touched. "You have changed, my love," I said.

"And you have not," he replied with a smile.

"Haven't I?" I returned.

"Not at all. Being immortal, you cannot be expected to change."

"And you are mortal, and you have changed."

"But my _heart_ has not changed."

I laid a hand over his chest, and could feel his heart beating into my hand, matching my own beat for beat. "I did not say it did; I did not say it would. I said _you_ have changed."

"Has _your_ heart changed, milady?" He finally voiced the question I knew had haunted him through all his wanderings.

"No, milord," I said. "My heart will change when yours does."

He traced my heart with the tip of one finger. "In one way, I also am immortal."

"Yes," I agreed.

"You do not contradict?"

"Your heart does not change; your heart is immortal. What is to contradict? I am not a fool—I can recognise logic!"

"Can you?" he asked, giving me a mock-surprised look. "What else can you do, oh learned Elf?"

"I can do this," I said, kissing him gently on the cheek.

"You are, indeed, very learned."

"I am. But I had a good teacher."

At this point in our tender reunion—which rather boldly took place in the middle of a rapidly filling hall—Master Bilbo Baggins, aforementioned Hobbit, ran up to us. "Dúnadan, you have returned at last!" he exclaimed upon seeing Aragorn. "I've been waiting for so long! I need your help—I'm stuck on a rhyme, and I promised to sing this tonight—oh, milady!" he saw me as if for the first time, and bowed low. "Apologies, Lady Arwen," he said. "I didn't mean to… er… I'm afraid I may have… er…" His face took on a red tint.

Aragorn laughed merrily. "She may not hold it against you, provided you are less heedless of lovers' trysts in the future. What help do you need?"

"Er… just a little song I'm writing… a little ditty, really… I need a wee bit of help"—the Hobbit held up finger and thumb a space apart to show us what a wee bit of help he really needed—"with the wording. If you have time later, I… er…"

I put my hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Give this rude Hobbit the aid he requires; it will lessen the chances of his interrupting us at an even _more_ inconvenient time."

Bilbo bowed low. "Thank-you, milady. And I am sorry…"

Aragorn shut him up with a look, and turned back to me. "We will meet, after the banquet?"

"Tonight in the garden," I whispered.

Bilbo took Aragorn's hand and led him away, talking rapidly the whole time. "You see, I'm writing a song for tonight, and—I'm sorry I interrupted—I desperately need help on rhymes and ideas. They expect something rather nice form a Hobbit, seeing as this whole banquet is for a Hobbit—it is rather foolish of them to suppose I'm a never-ending fount of tunes and words, but you know how Elves are—Goodness! _you _ought to know, I rather suppose…"

The banquet was slow… Elven banquets often last long, of course, but this one seemed to take years. I watched Adar eat, and drink, and pretend to be merry. I watched Lambë and Bragolcú kiss in the shadowy corner. And I watched the Hobbits laugh, and the Dwarves indulge in the alcoholic liquors on the beverage table, and the Men… who had none of the predictable characteristics of Elves, Hobbits or Dwarves.

I tried to guess their thoughts—Adar was thinking of me, and worrying. Lambë and Bragolcú were too wrapped up in one another to think of anyone else. The Hobbits were thinking of their food. And the Dwarves were too marinated in drink to think of anything else. And the Men… could have been thinking anything.

I left early and wandered in the gardens. I heard a familiar tune, and stopped.

_The leaves were long; the grass was green,  
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair  
And in the glade a light was seen  
Of stars in shadow shimmering.  
Tinuviel was dancing there,  
To a pipe of music unseen,  
And light of stars were in her hair,  
And in her raiment glimmering._

_Then Beren came form mountain cold,  
And lost he wandered under leaves,  
And where the Elven river rolled  
He walked alone and sorrowing.  
He peered between the hemlock-leaves  
And saw in wonder flowers of gold  
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,  
And in her hair like shadow following._

_Enchantment healed his weary feet  
That over hills were doomed to roam;  
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,  
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.  
Through woven woods in Elvenhome  
She lightly fled on dancing feet,  
And left him lonely still to roam  
In the silent forest listening._

_He heard there oft the flying sound  
Of feet as soft as linden-leaves,  
Or music welling underground,  
In hidden hollows quavering.  
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,  
And one by one with sighing sound  
Whispering fell the beechen leaves  
In the wintry woodland wandering._

_He sought her ever, wandering far  
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,  
By light of moon and ray of star  
In frosty heavens shivering.  
Her mantle glittered in the moon,  
As on a hill-top high and far  
She danced, and at her feet was strewn  
A mist of silver quivering._

_When winter passed, she came again,  
And her song released the sudden spring  
Like rising lark and falling rain  
And melting water bubbling.  
He saw the Elven-flowers spring  
About her feet and healed again  
He longed by her to dance and sing  
Upon the grass untroubling._

_Again she fled, but swift he came  
Tinuviel! Tinuviel!  
He called her by her Elvish name;  
And she halted listening.  
One moment stood she, and a spell  
His voice laid on her: Beren came,  
And doom fell on Tinuviel  
That in his arms lay glistening._

_As Beren looked into her eyes  
Within the shadow of her hair,  
The trembling starlight of the skies  
He saw there mirrored shimmering.  
Tinuviel the Elven-fair,  
Immortal maiden Elven-wise,  
And about him cast her shadowy hair  
And arms like silver glimmering._

_Long was the way that fate them bore.  
O'er stony mountains cold and grey,  
Though halls of iron and darkling door,  
And woods of nightshade morrowless.  
The Sundering Seas between them lay  
And yet at last they met once more,  
And long ago they passed away  
In the forest singing sorrowless. _

I ran to him as the final notes died away. There he was, leaning against the tree we'd first met at, smiling at me.

"Tinuviel!" Aragorn said with a chuckle—but I saw the pain in his eyes.

"What is the matter?" I asked. "We are together, darling one."

"For a time." He put his arms around me. I touched his forehead as he fingered a strand of my hair that had overflowed onto his shoulders.

"But _now_ we are together, whatever time may bring," I said.

His arms tightened, as if he feared to let me go, and then he said, "Your father would have you go to Valinor."

"But I shall not."

He suddenly released me, and I staggered backwards. "_I_ would have you go."

"But I shall not," I repeated.

"You would not obey me?"

"You would have me leave out of your love for me—I stay out of my love for you."

"Then we are at an impassé."

"I suppose so."

"To stay is to renounce the Twilight."

"I already have," I said, drawing close to him again. "Have you forgotten Cerin Amroth, when I told you I would cleave to you, leaving behind my kin and friends, without one glance back? Did you think I lied to you?"

He didn't answer me, just shut his eyes, and I sensed he was reliving the scene again. I was winning… Then his eyes snapped open. "Nothing can change your mind?" he asked in a weird, unnatural voice. It rasped—he was holding back tears.

"Nothing." It was my turn throw my arms around him and pull him close to me.

"You will die, Arwen," he said into my hair.

"Willingly: for, with, or after you."

"Arwen," he said, looking down at me: earnest, pleading, empathetic. "Le bainon6."

"You have said this before," I said. "I do not care for compliments from a man who will not believe me when I say I have already chosen. Must I give you a token, that you might remember better?"

I unclasped my necklace, mentally begging my mother to understand. _I am never going to see you again. I know that I promised… don't be angry with me, ammé. Didn't you once love my father like this?_ I put it in his hand. "I choose you. I choose a mortal life."

"You cannot give me this." There was a hardness in his tone that I knew he couldn't feel. I knew he loved me as fiercely and as desperately as I loved him… so why was he saying this?

"I have already chosen."

"Do not make me bind you to this." He opened his hand, offering it back to me. The rigidity was still there. He was holding a veil before his feelings. He was trying so hard to deaden how he loved me to save my life. "Please… you have a chance for another life… away from war… grief… despair…"

"Why are you saying this to me?" I asked, looking from his face to the gem before me, and then back at him. _Estel, when will you understand that I choose you because I cannot live without you?_ "Have you been talking with Ada?"

He ignored the question, confirming my suspicion. "I am mortal, Arwen. You are Elfkind. The Doom of Men will be hard for such as you…" He blinked rapidly, chasing away tears. "It was a dream, Arwen. Nothing more." Once more he offered the necklace to me.

I stood a moment, staring at it, trying to force illusive thoughts into words. _Lúthien and Beren's life… only a dream? _I wondered. _A dream, and nothing more?_ The gem sparkled in the moonlight, reflecting on our faces and lighting up his hand, making it gleam as perhaps Beren's hand had gleamed as it grasped the Silmaril. A tear—equally illuminated by the moonlight—fell before I found the words and looked up at him. "If you will not have my promise," I said in low voice, "At least have my gift. It is a gift. Keep it… until we meet again." I closed his fingers around the pendant, forcing him to accept it.

He slipped it into his tunic, reluctant. "Arw—"

"Estel!" I broke in fiercely. "You are telling me things I know you do not feel—cannot feel. You are pretending to be cold and indifferent, but we both know what you truly desire. We both know neither of us could live without the other. Stop telling me this! Stop trying to change me!"

Silence. I glared at him defiantly. He stared at me. I saw the emotion in his eyes; I saw the kiss before it came; and I received it, returning it with every part of my soul. Somehow his hands found mine, gripping as if they would never let go.

And as suddenly as the moment of passion had begun, it ended. Aragorn pulled away roughly. "So be it," he whispered, and walked away easily, as if nothing had happened, as if I was not standing there breathless, desperate for more.

If it were not for the white marks on my palm where his fingernails had dug in, the pain where he'd pressed my wrist, the way my heart was drumming, the whole scene might have come from my imagination. I mentally beseeched the tears that sprang to my eyes: _Do not fall. Please… I cannot cry now. Later… later I will cry. But please… do not fall yet. _

As I turned back into the house, and walked down the halls to the hall of fire, where all the now-stuffed guests and various Elves were stuffed, and all the guests not-yet stuffed were still eating, the heedless tears ran unchecked down my cheeks. I ducked into a nearby room, behind a tapestry, to allow my emotions to settle. When I had cooled my hot eyes, I slipped into Adar's pavilion near the front of the room, hoping to escape notice.

Bilbo had just finished one of his comic songs, and some of the Dwarves had tears streaming from their eyes, so hard had they laughed. Bilbo bowed low and the rest applauded.

"Daughter," Adar called to me, laughing. "Sing something for us! Master Bilbo has entertained us with a feeble Hobbit's excuse for a song, and we crave the _true_ music of the Elves to cleanse our soiled ears!"

I shut my eyes, forcing my composure to remain calm. Then I reopened them, determined that no one should see how close I was to breaking down.

"Perhaps not tonight, Ada," I said quietly.

"No… we need you, milady!" called Celebgil, the harpist. "Show them what true music sounds like!"

I hesitated, then stepped up to the platform where the artists performed. "Only if you will accompany me, milord."

Obediently, he began the opening chords to a song we often sang. It was one of my favourites, because of the sweeping melody that took you higher and higher, than lower and lower, and then took you soaring to the top in a sweeping finale. At his nod, I opened my mouth and began.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
A silivren penna míriel  
O menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-díriel  
O galadhremmeth ennorath  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
Nef aear, sí nef aeron!_

As the last note died away, the audience broke into applause. Nodding appreciation, I returned to Adar, and sat down. Celebgil was urged to play a solo… He accepted, saying, "Very well. But I will play a new comic love song Bilbo wrote for me… not 'true' music as you have just heard, but pleasant. I hope it will not sound flat after the Lady Arwen's stunning performance."

He began, singing along with the melody that his fingers coaxed from the beautiful golden harp.

_A fish asked a bird to teach him to fly  
"If you don't," he begged, "I will surely die."  
The bird agreed, for she loved him  
And then asked the fish to teach her to swim._

But the fish, ungrateful and uncaring, refused, as he soared in the sky with the bird. Then he fell in love with a beautiful salmon, and married her. The bird helped the two of them escape from a fisherman, and taught the salmon to fly, as well.

The melody was like all Hobbit songs—simple, with a rustic beauty that hinted at more than was given. I felt sorry for the bird, though I wasn't sure why. Celebgil's voice was beautiful, deeper than most of the Sindarin, yet able to attain high notes. His fingers were talented, and moved up and down. They reminded me of water in a shallow brook, expertly moving around pebbles and stones.

As I enjoyed the music, someone touched my sleeve. I jumped, and turned around. Aragorn was there; my pendant was around his neck. "I accept your gift, and your promise."

I leaned close and kissed his cheek. "Hanna-le."

I turned away, and looked around the room. Frodo and Bilbo were standing by the door. Frodo was watching me. I smiled at him. He blushed and left the room hurriedly. I turned back to Aragorn, but he had gone. I looked at Adar. "I saw your gift, my daughter," he said. "It is more than any king could give. You gave him your life."

I nodded.

"You may come to regret it."

I ignored him and looked back at Celebgil. He was on the last verse. The bird died of love, dodging between an arrow as a curious huntsman fired at the flying fish. The two fish lived on, oblivious that anything odd had ever happened.

After the explosion of applause, I left, and went to my room, where I could find quiet in the cool of the night. I lay down on my bed and went to sleep.

6. _Le bainon_: You are so beautiful


	7. An Evil Death: Eowyn

**Chapter III: "An Evil Death Hath Set Forth The Noble Warrior…"**

**26 February, 3019**

Not long after the conversation with Háma, Éomer received word of orcs roaming and pillaging on the outskirts of Rohan. It was obvious to everyone but my uncle that Gríma was no longer on our side. He poisoned Théoden's mind so that he did not listen to anyone save him—did not trust anyone but Gríma, even his own son. It hurt all of us very deeply to see what was so fine and noble destroyed so shamefully. Théoden was weak and would not last long. He would soon die. I tried not to think of what would happen should he die before Théodred could return—not only to me.

But when Éomer requested permission to go after the orcs, Gríma-through-Théoden claimed they could not spare the men. Éomer was not to be swayed from aiding the ravaged counties by a refusal of permission. Despite threats from Gríma, he left—but first he vowed to me that should Gríma touch me in his absence, my shame would be avenged by bloodshed.

"Éomer—don't hold yourself to such a vow, please. If he touches me, I will kill myself because of the shame; you will kill Gríma; and Théoden will kill you. And nothing will be left of us but blood."

"I will do what I must to protect you. I love you more than anything…" It was strange for Éomer to speak of brotherly affection for me; we both tried so hard to mask any emotion. But we were brother and sister, and we did love each other.

"What about Théodred" I teased playfully, tugging one of his blond curls.

"Even Théodred," he said, and meant it. "If anything were to come close to how I love you, it would be—"

"Weynia?" I asked. Weynia was pretty, I knew, and Éomer had liked her since he first came to Edoras.

"You're so foolish sometimes," he said. "I was going to say love of country. And you do not mind being loved as I love Rohan?"

"No." I hugged him. "Éomer—if he takes me—I won't be here when you come back. Promise me you'll tell Théodred—and Théoden."

He pulled away. He was crying. We knew that, though his death at an orc's hand in battle was possible, my death at my own hand was more likely. This could be the last time we ever saw each other.

"I love you so much," I said as he started to walk towards the stables. "Don't forget that."

"I won't."

Then he and a host of men were gone.

The first few days after he left, I was careful. I didn't go anywhere alone; I never left my door unlocked; I wouldn't go to my quarters alone or unarmed. But after a while, I grew tired of always being afraid; I couldn't bear constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being followed. I had to have a moment—just one—free of fear.

So one early morning, I woke before sunrise, so I could have a moment alone. Surely neither Gríma nor his spies would be up so early!

I crept down a dark corridor in the back of the House, sure that Gríma would not care to frequent such a seldom-used part of Meduseld. I could see the light of the door, just around the corner, when I stopped, listening. I had thought I'd heard a step. _I'm paranoid, _I laughed to myself. _Who in their right mind would be up so early?_ I continued walking.

Then I stopped again. I had heard a quick scuttle of footsteps.

I whirled around just as Gríma leapt upon me and shoved me backwards, into a rarely used backroom. He cut off my scream by putting his hand over my mouth. "Don't scream, milady," he hissed. "It would not be beneficial to your present predicament."

I froze, realising my stupidity in imagining I was safe here. I should have taken a more public route if I wished to avoid Gríma. Théoden was still asleep, and the guards at the wall were too far away to hear me. "Be quiet, and I'll let you go."

I nodded, and his hand moved from my mouth to my neck.

"Get away from me," I hissed. His hand had forced my lips against my teeth, and I could taste blood. "My brother and my cousin will know about this. If you touch me, they will kill you. Leave me alone, snake!"

"Oh, but you are alone," he mocked me. "You are very alone. No one can save you now."

"What will you do if I carry your child," I asked, trying to reason with him. "Let me go."

"They'll think you're a whore," he threatened. "Who is to say it's mine?"

"They won't," I lied. I would be thrown from Edoras, and would have to take refuge in an outskirt town. Or be put to death.

"Or I could say you were my mistress, and Théoden King would give me your hand in marriage." His eyes glowed. "The daughter pays her mother's debt," he said in a low hiss, pushing backwards. My legs felt the couch behind them, and it was easy for him to push my shoulders hard enough to make me lose my balance, and we fell onto the couch together, him on top of me, his weight serving to hold me down.

The thought of beautiful Mother ever engaged to this demon repulsed me. I pulled and struggled frantically. "I would never marry you, Worm!" He grabbed both of my flailing hands in one of his and pinned them above my head.

"I'll scream!" I threatened. "Let me go!"

He made no response but a low growl. I shrieked, and he looked up, saying, "What if I told you I could make sure Théodred never comes home?"

"You can't," I protested. "You don't have the power to do that. Not even you."

"You have no idea how far this goes," he laughed. "Whose orcs do you think they went to fight?"

I didn't know whether to believe him, or not…

"Stay very, very still, and he will return. If you cry out, or fight me…"

His finger traced from my jawline to my neck, where my bodice lacings poked out. I felt the gorge rise in my throat. And then his mouth descended on mine, open, with his teeth bared—I flinched as he kissed me, turning my face away so that he slimed my cheek. The lacings of my bodice gave easily. "You will regret this," I hissed. He only laughed and raised his head so he could see his hand, fumbling with the clasp at the neck of my gown. Then he froze—his grip tightened—he didn't say a word, just looked somewhere over my head. Were we discovered? I finally dared to turn.

Éomer was standing in the doorway, looking down at us. His face was white, with twin spots of scarlet on his cheeks. He had an expression of fury on his face I had never seen. It terrified me. I could hardly move, and somehow breathing became difficult.

"What," Éomer's voice was low and quiet, suggesting barely controlled wrathful passion. "What is going on here?"

I did not—could not speak. Gríma made no answer.

"_Speak!_" Éomer roared. "What are you _doing_?!"

Gríma let me go suddenly. I brought my hands down and shoved him off of me, sitting up and clutching my dress to myself. "What have you to say for yourself, Master Gríma?"

Gríma took a step towards Éomer. "Milord, I—"

Éomer drew his sword and charged into the room. Gríma turned tail and scurried off. "My king! My king! Your nephew is mad! My king!"

I took the opportunity to pick up my bodice and slip back to my chambers. I changed out of my torn clothes into a wool burgundy-gold gown and ran to the Golden Hall, where I had no doubt Gríma had headed for refuge.

Weynia, in my absence, had assisted Théoden to his throne—he was listening to Gríma, who was facing Éomer. Éomer was being restrained by five of the guards. Gríma looked up as I entered. "And here," he said dramatically, "Is my witness. Did Éomer not threaten death to me on the halls of Meduseld? Did he not pursue me with a sword?"

I pinched my lips together, then said, quietly, "I cannot deny that he did those things. But could you explain to the court why he did so?"

Gríma turned to Théoden. "A simple matter of being quick to anger and action without forethought—if I recall, a vice of his father's, Éomund." A quick flash of anger flitted across his face, I thought—or did I imagine it? "Was it not this temper that spurred him to his death? Éomer saw Éowyn and I together this morning; being a protective and caring brother—as well as aforementioned hot-headed—he naturally assumed…"

He paused and gave a quiet, modest cough.

"…And he rushed to defend her. Any might do the same—though he carried it to greater lengths than he ought to. But it is this lack of forethought that makes me believe he is not suited for the position in which you have placed him. He is always assuming, even of people he has known and loved since forever. Did he not leave to pursue orcs when you forbad him?"

"_I am going to kill you!" _Éomer screamed, fighting the guards.

"You see?" Gríma asked.

Gríma had made his case and rested it. And who doubted the victor?

Then he walked to me, taking my hands in his. I flinched, ever so slightly, at his touch. "I assure you, milady, your brother will be perfectly normal in a few days. He is weary from his trip—the one against his uncle's wishes?" He gave Théoden a sideways look. Then he said: "My King, I propose that for threatening me—before your very eyes; in your own hall—and for going against your wishes, you put him in the prison. A few weeks in confinement will cool his hot head."

Now I saw why Gríma had taken my hands. As he said this, he indicated his feet, and I looked down—he was standing over the place where Théodred was accustomed to stand during court. It was a reminder. And so even as I opened my mouth to defiantly tell my uncle what truly happened that morning on the steps, I knew no sound would come out. I could not sell my cousin's life for any amount of pain. I had been saved from Gríma for the moment. Éomer would not be executed.

So I bowed my head—unable to look at my brother—and backed away. I did not look up from the floor until I was in my room—door bolted—and lying face-down on my bed.

I had to blink back the tears that wanted to flood from my eyes—but a shield-maiden did not cry; tears connoted weakness.

I had to see Éomer. I had to talk to him. I didn't know how I was going to sneak past the guards—I was sure Gríma had instructed them that Éomer could not have guests—but I was going to.

It was almost midnight when I reached under my bed to find the clothes Weynia had hidden there for me. They were simple, peasant clothes—more importantly, the cloak had a wide cowl that would hide my face. All my cloaks were rich and expensive, and no one would think me a peasant in them. I slipped them on, and braided my hair, tying it back with a bit of leather from the worn bodice.

I looked in the mirror from under my hood. No one would know me for anyone other than Weynia. I hoped no one would get a light near my face, or make me take off my cloak.

Weynia's father was one of the guards. I planned to say to the guard, "I am Weynia, Wéonsil's daughter. I need to see him." When I saw Wéonsil (Weynia had seen him about this earlier) he was to show me to Éomer.

I made my way through the House to the stables. It was so bone-chillingly cold, I did not need to remind myself to pull my cloak around my face—I was too frozen to let anything but my eyes show beneath the heavy cloak.

"I'm Weynia. My father is Wéonsil," I gasped to the first guard who accosted me. "Where is he?"

"Weynia!" the man said in a tone I didn't appreciate. "How are things with Éowyn, m'dear?"

"She mourns for her brother," I said.

"Sh' oughta mourn for herself," he replied, leading me down the hall. "Ol' Wormy's got his eye on that one. Trade with him!"

I pinched my lips together. He must have seen irritation in my eyes, because he said, "Don't worry, lass… you're the only one for Megel, here."

Megel was Weynia's favourite guard… I had never met him; he was new to Edoras from Dunharrow. I looked up at him and met his eyes for the first time. "And you're the only one for Weynia," I said.

He laughed and leaned down as if he would have kissed me, but I said, "Where's my father?"

"In here." He ushered me into a small room. Wéonsil stooped over a table with an ale. "Wéonsil! Your daughter's here!"

He stood up. "You're here!" he said. "Come with me."

Wéonsil took me down a long corridor to another small room. He unlocked it and said, "Call when you're ready. You shouldn't wander through here alone."

I slipped into the room, and Éomer was sitting on the floor in the corner, his head in his hands. "Brother."

He looked up. "Éowyn!" He leapt to his feet and embraced me. "Why are you here, you little fool? Did Gríma follow you?"

"Shall I always live my life worrying who is following me?" I asked bitterly.

"Apparently you didn't this morning," he said. "What ever possessed you to go out alone like that?"

"I didn't think he would be up so early," I began.

"Well, he was. But why are you here now?"

"I had to see you."

"No… particular reason?" he asked, his eyes searching mine worriedly. "Nothing you need to tell me?"

"Stop worrying about me," I said. "No… Gríma only got his hands on me this morning."

His arms tightened. "I wish I'd arrived sooner. I was almost too late."

"You weren't," I assured him.

He let me go. "Sit down, Éowyn. I need to tell you something."

I don't know how I knew, but I did. An intuitive thought burned itself into my head, and though for a split second I hoped I was wrong, I knew I wasn't. _Théodred is dead._

"What is it?" my voice was serious, but betrayed nothing. Isn't it funny how we pretend? We know something is true… without knowing how we know, we just do. And yet we wait for someone else to confirm it for us before we let them know we know.

"He's dead."

It did not come as a surprise… only solid pain like a punch in the stomach. Solid pain, packed with even harder guilt, nearly bowled me over, physically and mentally. I swayed, and Éomer caught me. "I killed him then," I whispered.

"No," he said.

"I did—I did!" I insisted. "I killed my cousin!"

Amazing the conflicting thoughts that sweep your mind in moments of hysteria. In a second I went from willing to sacrifice honour, life, and limb for my cousin… almost screaming for Gríma to come and take me, rape me and give me back my cousin… to being red with hatred for him. He had killed my cousin. I did nothing wrong. Gríma had killed my brother.

"Éowyn, he died long before this morning."

I was silent for a few moments, allowing myself to cool down before I spoke. I imagined ice, pouring down on me and solidifying every emotion in me, as it was. I felt nothing. I was nothing.

"Where is his body?" I asked with practiced detachment. The frosty pride I was never seen without.

"They will bring it soon. It may arrive any day."

The door swung open. I leapt to my feet. It was Wéonsil. "Milady, the Sun is rising and my shift is done… you must leave now."

It had been all night. The night had passed in a heartbeat. While I was screaming at Gríma, the moon had set, the stars had set, and now it was morning.

I nodded. "I will come back again, Éomer," I said.

"Go, Éowyn."

I ran to the Golden Hall. Théoden was gone, the guards were gone. There was no fire in the massive fireplace yet… no one was up. The room was so cold, I could see my breath as I walked across the stone floor. My footsteps echoed in the room.

I knelt before the golden throne and ran my hand over its gilded carvings. So important… so useless!

I did not allow myself to cry, but merely sat on the steps and wept without tears. My head fell forward into my chest and I slumped, powerless to move. The bitter cold of the night was ebbing; I could feel the sun's rays penetrating the high windows.

All this—the beautiful tapestries that chronicled the history of my nation… the ornate carvings on the pillars and walls… the design on our shields… "It's supposed to mean something!" I railed at the ceiling. "Rohan has fallen to an enemy within! We are nothing now… we are meant to be so much! There is nothing now of what once was here! Théoden is not what he used to be. The people… _I_ am not what I used to be!"

I thought I heard a pattering of feet—whether it was my imagination or Gríma truly was watching me, I know not. Unwilling to take the chance, I stood and fled to my chambers.

They brought his body the next day. It was laid, for a short time, in his old room. I waited until Théoden gave up his anguished vigil at his side to go and see him. But then I knelt at his side, and touched his cold cheek. "I never told you I loved you, cousin," I whispered. "I never lied to you… and you died without hearing the words you longed for from my lips!"

I leaned over his body. His face was stern. It frightened me. But I did not falter in saying the words I should have said before he left me. "Théodred—I love you. I will always love you. Not the way you wanted me to… but I do love you."

I took his icy hand and pressed it against my cheek. I waited for tears to free me from my agony, but none came. For release from my pain, I have wept… but there were none.

I had thought I was alone.

I was wrong.

A whispery tune came from the shadows, speaking in the Rohirrim tongue. It was an old mourning song we all knew at Edoras.

"_Bealocwealm hafath fr_é_one forth onsended."_

I did not turn to see who it was, but began to sing along, doing the harmony portion.

"_Gledd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende…" _

"_On Meduselde."_ 7

As the finally notes died away, I indulged my curiosity and finally turned around. Gríma leaned against the wall, his eyes half-closed. I caught my breath.

"Milady," he said. "So sad. Your brother untrue to the House of Eorl… such shame you must carry! And now your fiance is dead… Well, for some people life is not easy."

I stood up, ready to flee if he came near me.

"You should take comfort, Lady Éowyn, in the knowledge that your betrothed _died_. He did not run off with a woman with larger breasts… better features… prettier eyes. There was no slut to distract him."

The bitterness in his voice stung. I knew he was thinking of Mother.

"He is dead, Gríma," I said quietly. "And he loved me, while he lived."

"How can you know?" he asked in a whisper. "How can you feel what they feel, and know if it is true?"

He was looking down at the floor. I was seeing a Gríma I'd never seen before… a broken, hurt Gríma.

"You can't, I suppose," I said gently.

Then he looked up, and his venomous, snake eyes told me he was no longer broken. "Milady, as you have lost a fiance, might I offer a substitute?"

I stepped back, nearly tripping over the cot where my cousin lay. "Nay, Gríma, I would not take your replacement were the whole House of Eorl stripped away from me!"

"It is, Éowyn."

I shook my head in defiance.

"Éowyn, the House of Eorl is destroyed. Do you think Théodred will allow an upstart nephew to take his place? His own son is dead. Come with me, Éowyn, and we can start a new House in Rohan."

I spat at him. "I will not be the founder of the House of the Worm! I will never be yours, if I must die to keep it that way! Leave me, you snake!"

He slunk towards the door, but turned. "Wait, Éowyn, and you will see how things turn out between you and me."

I spat again, and this time the spittle hit him in the cheek. He left hurriedly.

I looked back at my cousin. He could not hear, but still I spoke. "I need you to save me, cousin. I know what he says is true… The House of Eorl is ending. Éomer and I are the lone survivors of that line… your father has fallen into despair. Théodred, we will fall. Éomer will die… and he will come for me. And then what will I do? Who will hear me then?"

I left him. Corpses could not save me, and I needed the free air of the outside to lighten my mood. I made for the battlements where Théodred and I had walked, and looked out over the plains. The guards called out greetings to me as I stood on a ledge, feeling my hair whip around me and my skirt tug at my waist.

I was so alone… my brother imprisoned for who knew how long… my only other hope of freedom slain… I wondered if the wind ever felt as horribly alone as I did… as if no one could help it. Perhaps that was why it howled, I mused. Despair.

I looked out over the hills. The mountains in the distance longed for death with me… the rivers wept for me… the wind moaned for me… the plains spoke for me, saying, "What is death compared to life with Gríma?"

I looked at our flags, standing there. The white horse had run across the green flag since time out of mind. It would not for much longer. It would be destroyed, and all would come to darkness… I saw my country heading for destruction, like a horse running mad off a cliff. And I, like the rider, was forced to be dragged to its bitter end. Rohan was going to fall.

As if in reply to my thoughts, a tearing noise sounded. I looked up. The wind tore one of the flags off its pole and blew it away.

I watched as it grew farther and farther away, furling and unfurling in the wind. A tiny speck in a great blue sky. And then it disappeared over the wall. It was just one more symbol—one more portent—of what lay ahead. We were doomed, some to die, and I—

Yes! I was to spend my days the harlot of man who ripped us from the flagpole and thrust us to the wind, detached from all we had once been and uncertain of the future. I wanted to scream… my life was closing in… like a cage, I was trapped…

I whirled suddenly, half-expecting to see the House behind me in ruins, and Gríma waiting for me…

But the House was still there.

"Milady! Can you see them, milady?" a voice called from below.

"See what?" I called back.

"The riders—three riders—there!"

I saw them now—a white horse, travelling fast, and two in its wake. I recognised all three.

"It's Shadowfax!" I cried. "And Hasufel and Arod!"

"Is it Garulf?" a woman's voice shrieked. She was Gilléod, Garulf's wife. The Riders that had gone with Éomer had brought word that two—one of them Garulf—were slain, and their horses had been given to wanderers in need of transportation. But Gilléod, the bride that had only been married three days before her husband left with Éomer, refused to believe he would not return.

I looked carefully at Hasufel's rider. Garulf had flaming red hair that I should have seen, even at this distance. This man's hair was dark. "No. It is not Garulf."

Gilléod collapsed into her brother Garléod's arms. I continued to stare out at them. A man above me on the wall called out, "The leader is Gandalf the Grey!"

The crowd gave a hiss. I had not been involved in Gandalf's comings and goings from Edoras. All I knew was he had stolen a horse from Théoden—the King of the Horses, Shadowfax. I had never ehard the whole tale, and I didn't care, really.

There were two horses on Arod—a very tall one and a very short one, it seemed.

"There are four!" someone called. "Four riders."

They began to drift away as the foursome approached, anxious to greet them at the gates, and when the four reached the outer wall of Edoras I was alone on the walls. The gates opened. They rode through, towards the House. I watched the one on Hasufel. He was tall; even on the horse. Taller than Théodred was—once was. He was only dead now. Nothing else. He didn't love me anymore. He didn't fear for me anymore. He was just dead.

Hasufel's rider carried himself nobly. He rode as one of the Rohirrim, it seemed. He looked about him—Edoras was not strange or new to him. As when Éomer told me of Théodred's death, the instinctive thought passed through my mind—_He has been here before. _

I wanted to ask him when, for if he had ever been here while I was, I would remember such a man! He seemed so strong—a power seemed to live within him, but though he might desire it, he would not yet use it. All of him seemed consumed with holding something back—the power—the flame. It intrigued and frightened me. I could only imagine what he looked like u close.

He looked up and saw me. I held his gaze for a moment, but then his horse stumbled and he looked away. Hasufel had stopped before the Rohan flag. I watched him rein his horse in to gaze at it. I hardly dared breathe. The flag that was so important to us—if he left it in the dirt and horse dung, it signified our ignoble ruin at our enemies' hands. If he picked it up, there was still hope.

Hasufel's rider hesitated. Then he dismounted to pick up the flag. Reverently he dusted it, folded it, and tucked it in his tunic. Then he followed Shadowfax and Arod.

I left then, eager to see what would happen when these strangers arrived at the Golden Hall. Especially what would happen when Hasufel's rider returned the flag he had rescued. There seemed to be still hope.

7. Dirge: Featured in the extended version of _The Two Towers_:  
An evil death hath set forth the noble warrior…  
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels…  
In Edoras.


	8. Lover and Beloved: Arwen

**Chapter IV: Lover and Beloved**

**24 Girithron, 3018**

The company was leaving tomorrow—I would not Aragorn for a long time—if ever. I was in the woods late that night, walking alone, thinking. I beseeched Elbereth, the beloved Elven star, to watch him for me, to allow him to conquer Gondor, to give him support when I couldn't be there to give it. The stars above me sparkled and the wind rustled through the trees.

I had not expected anyone to be walking so late at night, but I met Adar about the time the moon was rising. "Daughter," he said when he saw me. "I thought you'd gone to bed."

"No," I said. "I am troubled."

"You mourn Aragorn's imminent departure."

I nodded, and looked back up at the stars. I saw the Evenstar shining far above, and I touched my collarbone where my pendant used to lie. I missed the mithril against my skin… unlike Man's hard jewels, mithril was never cold to the touch; it was so comfortable to wear that you forgot it was there. It never needed polishing; it was as beautiful as the day it was mined an age later.

"You have no hope, Tindomerel."

It had been a long time since anyone had called me by Nana's pet name for me. I turned in his direction. His profile-silhouette stood out clearly against the night-sky. "There is still hope."

"It is not to late to retract your promise, daughter."

"I do not want to retract it, Ada."

"Think well of it before it is too late."

"It is too late."

He turned to me. I met his gaze steadily. "No."

I tried to tell him without words that I loved Aragorn—why, only the Valar knew—and that death at his side was merciful in comparison to an eternity alone, without the man I loved. But I knew that Adar would never understand. All I could hope for was that he would respect my choice and not hate Aragorn for his love. Was that so much to ask?

Yes, of course it was. Parents are parents, and very little will make them cease being parents.

Many ask Time to slow, and others beg it to speed. Yet they all know in their hearts that it can do neither at their bidding—the Valar determine what course is best for it. So it was with my future: I could not change course at Adar's bidding; I had lost control by giving the pendant to Aragorn as token of my oath. I had given him the reins of my life, to drive it where he would, and I had changed from driver to passenger.

Adar's eyes glistened with tears. "Valinor without you…"

I turned away, trying to departmentalise the thought of life without my father. I knew that pain was bearable to love's separation, but the comparison did not make it easier.

"Even if you stay, hope may not come. Aragorn may fall into darkness. He may never return to you. He may never take the throne of Gondor and Arnor."

An unbidden and unwanted tear fell down my cheek. My heart pounded. My head whirled in terrible agony. Adar saw my pain—his eyes mirrored my torn heart. I was caught in a whirlwind of emotion—doubt—pain—horror—misery—love—longing for Adar—longing for hope—longing for Aragorn.

Relentlessly, he continued. "Is this what you want, Arwen? Do you want to stay here, not knowing if you will ever get what you dream of? Can you honestly say you have no regret?"

I couldn't breathe. Tears were falling like rain down my cheeks as I fought a losing battle for control of my voice.

"Can you?" he probed. Adar was cruel—very cruel—to hurt me like this.

I managed a breath like a drowning gasp. It rasped, and I nearly choked on tears as they fell into my mouth and tainted it with salt.

"Tell me."

I wanted to scream words that refused to come. _Why are you hurting me like this?_

"I—" no more would come. I was strangling… icy fingers gripped my throat and would not let any sound escape. I managed another breath, shaky and tremulous. The words I wanted to say spun through my head, screaming loud silences at Adar. _Why are you saying this to me? Do you not know I would welcome death rather than your questions that force me to truly face what lies ahead? Leave me alone… stop making this so hard for me!_ I dropped my head, overcome and unable to muster strength even to look him in the eye.

"Arwen, answer me—have you truly given your whole heart to this man—with no room for regret? No room for me? No room for your mother?"

More tears. More again. More pounding from my heart that knew the truth. Yet my choice now seemed less permanent. Did I _truly_ want this? I wanted to say yes… and _mean_ it. Yet it refused to come to my lips. But my heart screamed it for me. _Yes—yes—yes—yes!_ It shrieked. _Tell him yes!_

The cry shaped itself on my lips. "Yes."

It was a whisper, almost inaudible. I looked up. Adar was crying, too. We wept, looking straight at one another, our wills batling.

"Arwen… no." His eyes had a dull stare of despair in them. Adar realised—I knew he had to—I woudl not forsake my choice—though my heart broke into million pieces. I had chosen, and for Aragorn, I would remain. Adar knew me. He knew I would not sway now, for all his tortuous questions. So why was he asking? Why did he insist on hurting me?

"Yes." Still a whisper, but a loud one. I spoke up, louder. "Yes. I have given my heart to him."

"No…" He was grave. "Please… for our sakes…"

"Yes…" I said, louder still. "I would wait for my love until the end of the world. None will come between us."

He said, in a voice that was almost malicious, "Very well. Yet if Aragorn survives this war you will still be parted. If Sauron is defeated, and Aragorn made king, and all that you hope for comes true, you will still have to taste the bitterness of mortality." He began to pace back and forth, painting an all too vivid picture of what lay ahead. "Whether by the sword or by the slow decay of time, Aragorn will die.

"And there will be no comfort for you, Arwen, no comfort to ease the pain of his passing. He will come to death, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men, in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world."

His voice dropped to a whisper, and he drew closer. "But _you_, my daughter… you will linger on, in darkness and in doubt, as nightfall in winter that comes withut a star. Here you will dwell, bound to your grief, under the fading trees, until all the world is changed, and the long years of your life utterly spent."

He stopped, and the silence broke me from my horrified reverie. I swayed; he reached out to steady me. I shied away from his hand as if he were Melkor himself—and in that moment, the Dark Lord's evil master was preferable to the tormentor my own father was to me. I turned and ran blindly towards the House. The wind roared suddenly and hit my back with a shove that seemed supernatural. I tripped and nearly fell as I stumbled up the steps of the House.

I ran down the hallways, past curious onlookers, past even Aragorn. I had to get to my chambers before I collapsed in agony.

I made it. Lambë caught me as I ran through the doorway and helped me into bed. I curled in a fetal position and sobbed. Somewhere in my misery, I fell into a stupor.

Hours later I heard Lambë's voice in the dim corridor outside my room. "_She has been talking with her father… I think he has been pressing her."_

"_I would not have her come with me if she wills it not,"_ Aragorn's voice said. "_Bitter though it may be, if she chooses her people, I won't force her to be mine."_

"_She loves you, milord."_

"_And I love her… too much to see her suffer. Tomorrow I will leave. If she wishes to revoke her bond to me, I will not return for her. All I ask is a moment with her."_

I sat up and looked at their profiles through the thin tapestry. Lambë's smooth and well-proportion face was defined to the smallest detail; I could see parts of Aragorn's beard on his chin in his silhouette. "That I will give you, meleth-nin."

He came through the tapestry and sat on the edge of my bed next to me. I embraced him, letting my still-flowing tears flow onto his tunic. It was a silver-grey one he had received from the Elves long ago. It had worn even smoother than it was to begin with, and I loved to lay my head against it. "Estel…" I whispered.

He stroked my hair gently, as my mother used to. Shutting my eyes, I could imagine I was lying in bed and she was brushing my hair. But then I looked up, into his incredibly deep grey eyes that told me in a glance that I was free to choose—that he would not force me—that he did not want to hurt me, nor allow me to hurt myself. _Go with your people, Arwen,_ his eyes told me. _Don't die for my sake._

_Don't you see that if I go, I might as well die._

"Estel—Father said that in the end I will beg for the chance to recant…" The tears began anew with a vigour that hurt to feel. Adar's image was too clear for me—I felt the grief only mortals must face, years ahead though it might be. I could see the Queen Arwen of Gondor weeping beside the tomb of Ellessar the King, and longing bitterly that her chosen life had not brought her to such a pass. It hurt to think that someday I would grievously repent what I now accepted so willingly.

"That time may come, if you allow doubts to overcome you," he whispered. "But for now, you must go to sleep."

I drew in breath to say something—anything—to protest what I knew was true—but he covered my mouth with a kiss. I lay back against the cover as he began to hum a song that followed the tune of a lullaby my mother had used to sing to me. I fell asleep with Aragorn singing, stroking my hair, and the realisation that my choice was irrevocable, and whatever may lie ahead, I did not regret it. Yes, my choice was made. Come what might, I had chosen. The future, bitter and painful as it might be, was not yet here.

What was here, for the precious moments we had before his departure, was Aragorn and I; two people in love.

Not a Man and an Elf. Not a mortal and an immortal. Not one of Numenor and one of the Twilight.

We were lover and loved one. Two people. Us. Aragorn and Arwen. Ellessar and Undomiel. Estel and Evenstar.


	9. The King Of the Golden Hall: Eowyn

**Chapter IV: The King of the Golden Hall Restored**

**02 March, 3019**

I ran into the Hall through the door that opened behind the throne on the dais. I slid through the tapestry and took my place behind my King. Gríma heard my footsteps and turned to look at me. I dropped my eyes and avoided his gaze.

The door creaked open as the four travellers were admitted. I had missed Hama's announcing them to the King, and so had missed their names. No matter; it wouldn't be hard to figure them out.

The four figures entered through the large door at the end of the Hall—four silhouettes in the smoky haze that the fire created. First was Gandalf the Grey: even before I could clearly see him, I recognised his pointed hat and the knocking his wooden staff made against the stone floor. When he had passed into the light a high window made, I saw he looked much as I remembered him… tall, yet stooping; old, yet seemingly strong and fit; wearing a dingy-grey woollen cloak that covered anything he wore beneath. Only shoes peeped from beneath its folds; I was surprised to note that they were a shining, rich white.

Then the tallest one came. He had long, blond hair; the Rohirrim was chiefly a light-skinned race, but he was a different blond, lighter and seemingly full of light; his face was so pale as to have a hidden candle flickering beneath the flaxen skin. He was clad in a green tunic with embroiderings in a silver thread; the pattern seemed to be leaves and water, with strange runes that I could not read.

The third stranger was short: scarcely a child's height. Yet he was covered in facial hair; his thick chestnut beard hid feature and upper torso. Only two dark eyes were distinguishable. I wondered how he ate under the massive amounts of hair.

Fourth, and last, was Hasufel's Rider, as I called him in my mind, knowing no other name for him. He looked about the room as he entered, smiling to himself at our tapestries, deeply inhaling the scent of the fire. His face was old… yet he seemed younger in body. Like Gandalf, I found paradox in every movement he made. Despite the apparent youth of his frame, his dark hair was flecked with grey. His eyes were grey, but not the cloudy, hazel-grey of my kin; they were clear as water, and I wondered if his thoughts were transparent through them. A glimmer of light caught my eye: he wore a woman's pendant on a silver chain around his neck. I wondered what it meant to him; who had given it to him; where she was; and why she had given it to him.

Then the four were scarcely three metres from the dais. Gandalf stepped forward, and the others remained behind him, standing quietly. I tensed when I saw Gríma's face. It reminded me of a snake readying itself to strike.

There was a pause, and all waited for Théoden to make some welcome to the four, or at least to acknowledge their presence. When it was apparent there would be none, Gandalf said, "Hail Théoden son of Thengel! I have returned. For behold! The storm comes, and now all friends should gather together, lest each singly be destroyed."

Théoden stood shakily, and I rushed from my place to help him before he nearly toppled form the dais. He was old, yet still there could be seen traces of his former glory that old age and Gríma's spell hadn't blotted out. "I greet you," he rasped, clutching my arm to keep his balance. "And perhaps you look for welcome. But, truth to tell, your welcome is doubtful here, Master Gandalf. You have ever been a herald of woe; troubles follow you like crows, and ever oftener the worse. Here you are! and with you come evils worse than before, as might be expected… why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow? Tell me that!"

He let go of my arm and sat down harder than he probably meant to. He winced, but mastered himself and dismissed me. I stepped past Gríma and stood behind the throne again. Gríma rose and said, apparently to Théodred but directed at our visitors, "You speak justly, milord. It is not even a week since Éomer brought tidings that your son was slain: your right-hand, second-in-command, your heir. And in Éomer, your next-of-kin, there is little trust. Few men would be left to guard the walls of Edoras if he were allowed to rule."

I clenched my fists and had to restrain myself from jumping in and defending my brother.

"And now," he continued, "We learn the Dark Lord is stirring in the East: such is the our that this wanderer chooses to return. Láthspell I name you: Ill News. And ill news is an ill guest, they say."

He smirked at Gandalf, who looked at him imperturbably. "You are held wise, my friend Wormtongue."

_By whom?_ I wondered.

"And you are doubtless a support to your master. Yet in two ways may a man come with ill news. He may be a worker of evil; or he may be such as leaves well alone, and comes only to bring aid in time of aid."

There was a pause as Gríma assessed suitable replies. Then he hissed, "That is so, but there is a third kind: pickers of bones, meddlers in other men's sorrows, carrion-fowl that grow fat on war. What aid have you ever brought, Láthspell? and what aid do you bring now? Do you bring men? or weapons? That would I call aid, and that is our present need. But who are these that follow at your tail? Three ragged wanderers in grey—and you the most beggar-like of the four!"

I felt someone watching me, and looked at Hasufel's Rider. He was staring in my direction, deep in thought, and though he met my eyes, I wondered if he saw me, or whether he saw someone else. I cocked my head in my curiosity, and the movement brought him to himself for a moment. I met his gaze, and I felt something leave my body and touch his… a transmission of emotion. It seemed he knew my thoughts… my fears… my joys… that in that moment, he had read my entire soul. I blushed and looked away.

Gandalf turned to Théoden. "The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden son of Thengel. Has not the Door-Warden, Háma, reported the names of my three companions? Seldom has any King of Rohan received such guests. Weapons they have laid at your doors that are worth many a mortal man, even the mightiest. Grey is their raiment, for the Elves clad them, and thus they have passed through the Shadow to your Hall."

Gríma did not miss his chance. "You speak of Elves: you are in league with them, then, and the sorceress Galadriel of the Lothlorien the Golden Wood? It is not to be wondered at: nothing of aid or well-being comes out of such an evil place.

The Dwarf would have taken a step forward and retorted angrily, but Hasufel's Rider grabbed his shoulder and held him back.

And then Gandalf sang. The melody was sweet, but the words were unclear, and only the suggestions the song evoked reached me behind the throne. Seldom had anyone seen her in her Golden Wood, the Elven Queen Galadriel. She was pale as the Moon, and twice as beautiful, and few men walked the grass, or could imagine the splendour of Galadriel's well.

There was a hushed silence. Even Gríma did not speak. Gandalf cleared his throat. "The wise speak only of what they know," he said quietly. "A witless worm have you become. Therefore be silent, and keep your forked tongue between your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy words with a serving-man until the lightening falls."

He raised his staff. There was a noise as thunder, and I was hard-pressed to keep a scream from emerging my mouth. The hall darkened until it was black as night. Even the fire dwindled to tiny sparks. In the blackness, I heard Gríma shrieking, "Did I not tell you to forbid his staff? Háma has betrayed us! Guards!"

I could not bear for hope to be thrown away by Wormtongue's hissing. I abandoned my post behind the throne and kicked as hard as I could in the direction of his head; my foot made contact with something solid. There was a quiet moan from Gríma and a thump as he crumpled to the ground. I hoped I'd killed him, but doubted it.

Hoping no one had observed me, I slipped back behind the throne.

"Now, Théoden son of Thengel, will you hearken to me?" Gandalf asked.

_Yes—say yes!_

Théoden shifted in his chair.

"Not all is dark," Gandalf went on. "Take courage, Lord of the Mark; for better help you will not find. No counsels have I to give to they that despair. Yet counsel I could give, and words I could speak to you. Will you hear them? They are not for all ears. I bid you come out before your door and look abroad. Too long have you sat in the shadows and listened to twisted tales and crooked promptings."

Théoden stood again. I helped him down the steps, joy in my heart. Wormtongue was yet on the floor; I hoped he would never leave it alive.

Théoden and I went to the door. Gandalf rapped at the heavy wood with his staff. "Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

The guards opened the doors. Sunlight streamed in. A breeze caught my hair and played with it, swirling it around my face.

"Send your guards to the stairs foot," Gandalf said to Théoden. Then he turned to me. "And you, Lady Éowyn… leave him a while with me. I will care for him."

I met his eyes with a smile of gratitude. Silently I let go of Théoden's arm—he stood on his own!—and did a courtesy, which Gandalf received with a small bow. I turned towards the house and took one step, before I turned again, wondering if I really should leave my King alone. Théoden looked at me as if he had never seen me before. He smiled at me. There was love in his eyes… love that had been there for Théodred and Éomer all along, but never for me. I returned his smile tentatively. Strange, after all these years, all the eleven years I had spent there, that I had never had him smile at me like he loved me. Like he loved Théodred and Éomer.

"Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter," he said softly, his eyes filled with the love I had longed for. "The time for fear is past."

_The time for fear is past._ Fear of what? I was afraid of so much… what fear is past? Did I no longer need to fear Wormtongue? Yes—I was sure of that. Did I no longer need to worry for Éomer's safety? That also seemed likely. What about my dream to become a shield-maiden? Anything was possible now, it seemed.

I stood at the threshold of Edoras. I looked at the King, standing there so strong and sturdy. He was taller than I was, now that he didn't stoop. I smiled at him again, rejoicing in the mutual love we had for one another.

Then I turned into the Hall where Gríma was sitting up on the dais, dazedly touching his head. I walked over to him. "Greetings, Master Wormtongue," I said coolly.

He looked about the Hall and saw we were alone. He gave a slight smirk as I ascended the steps of the dais to meet him. I turned to him as I reached Théoden's throne, careful to keep an inert, motionless expression on my face. I didn't want him to know yet how exhilarated I was.

"Éowyn…" he murmured, attempting to intimidate me as he once had. But now it didn't work. I had worn my sword at my waist ever since Éomer had been arrested, waiting. I was ready.

I drew it. "Yes, Gríma, you can try to scare me with your hiss," I said in a low and dangerous tone. "But I will never be yours. You have failed your master, Gríma. The Lord Gandalf has come, and you are defeated."

He looked at me. "You had some work in this, didn't you?"

"I did."

Gríma felt the lump on the back of his head. I nodded.

Suddenly there was a knife in his hand. It seemed orkish—the blade was notched and curved. I stood still as he came towards me, holding my sword ready. "You will die for that, Éowyn."

"I will not die. And yet I would welcome death as one of the lesser cruelties you are capable of inflicting, Wormtongue. I do not fear you."

"No, you do not fear me now that all your dreams have come true!" he hissed, stopping just beyond reach of the blade I held. I thought of how easily I could lunge forward and slit his throat.

"My dreams have not come true." _No—but they will!_

"They died with your cousin, then."

"No, they did not die with him." I felt a stab of pain at the memory of Théodred. "They have not yet been born."

"Then I will see that they are born dead!" he spat. "They will never come true for you! You will never know happiness!"

"Perhaps I will not," I said slowly. Then I whirled, placing my sword-tip at his neck. "Perhaps not while you live!"

His beady eyes widened. I contemplated killing him. He deserved death; yet the crime of murder—no matter how justified—in the Golden Hall was rewarded by the same.

"Milady—"

"Oh, so we are back to Milady again, are we?" I said sarcastically. "Spare me your grovelling, worm!"

He didn't say a word more, just looked at me pleadingly. I did not take pity; his eyes were no more pleading than mine had been when he tried to rape me. He had not taken pity… neither would I.

"Drop the knife."

It fell to the ground with a clatter.

"Get out," I spat.

He jumped up and ran outside.

I sighed in relief, and sheathed my sword. Then I turned towards the tapestry of Eorl. To my surprise, the dark-haired man stood there, watching me.

"Greetings, milord." I spoke in the common tongue.

He bowed and answered in the Rohirric—my own language. "You fear that man—the one you drove away?" His voice was even, mellow, and gentle.

"Not anymore."

He turned towards the tapestry. Eorl stared down at us placidly, unafraid, laughing in the face of danger. "You fear him yet, milady," he said in a low tone.

My tone rose… I knew he spoke truth. "I don't fear him any longer!"

"You still fear that Gríma could do you harm, though your king has been freed."

He was right. "Who are you that you know such things about a girl you've never seen before?" I asked.

He turned back to me. "I am Aragorn, known to many as Strider."

"When have you been here before? This is not your first time in the Land of the Horsemen… I can tell."

"How can you tell?" He seemed amused.

"You speak our tongue as if you once spoke it often, and you entered the Hall as if you knew it well. When were you here? Not while I have lived here."

"Many years ago, before your time."

"Was Théoden the King at that time?"

"No: Thengel was the King." He did not look old: perhaps twice my age (four and forty years), but certainly no more. Yet if he had been here in the time of Thengel, he had to be older than Háma or Théoden.

I looked at the necklace. Up close, I could see it was in the figure of a diamond eight-pointed star, the north and south points longer than the others; the east and west more elaborate; the north-east, east-south, south-west, and west-north wrought out of silver. "Who gave you the necklace?" I asked.

"A woman from the valley of Imladris."

I was about to ask her name, but he asked a question of his own. "And whose company am I enjoying?"

"I am Éowyn daughter of Éomund," I said.

"Horse-lover," he said, speaking the meaning of my name.

"Yes, milord."

"It suits you. I can see you are a Shield-Maiden of Eorl."

I nodded. "I can use a sword better than many men here. My cousin taught me, and my brother also."

"Your cousin is…"

"Théodred, the son of the king," I said, lowering my eyes so he could not see the grief. "He is dead… slain a few days ago. We were betrothed."

"I am sorry." I looked up. There was pain in his eyes. "You must mourn the loss bitterly."

"Yes, milord."

"And think of the things you might have gone on to do, had he lived."

"Yes, milord."

He was silent, looking at me. We stared at one another, and I wondered if he saw the lack of love. I was ashamed to admit the man I pledged to marry I did not want—that we shared a platonic emotion, but nothing more—and I hoped he did not see.

A messenger's entrance broke the uneasy stillness. "Milady, you are wanted."

I nodded to Aragorn and followed the messenger out the door.

He took me to the King outside on the porch. Éomer was standing beside him, and when he saw me, he opened his arms.

I ran down the steps and flung my own arms around him, unashamed by those who watched our meeting. Tears of joy coursed down his cheeks. "You are all right," he said softly. "Never was I at rest in the prison, picturing what might be happening to you—"

I put a hand on his lips. "Don't speak of that here, Éomer. I am all right. We are all right now."

Théoden touched my cheek as Éomer and I broke apart. "You look like my mother once did," he told me. His mother was Morwen of Lossarnach, my grandmother. "You have grown since you came."

I nodded, choosing not to remark that growth in eleven years is normal when you are twelve. "Yes, I have grown, milord."

"It is fit that you see my counsellor reckoned with."

I nodded and stood by Éomer, feeling safe.

Háma entered, followed by Wormtongue. Háma knelt and presented Théoden with Herugrim, Théoden's sword. "Here, milord, is your ancient blade. It was found in the Worm's chest. Loth was he to render of the keys. Many other things are there that men have missed."

Gríma hissed, "You lie! And this sword your master himself delivered into my keeping!"

"And now he requires it of you again," Théoden said softly, with a low menace to his tone. "Does that displease you?"

A hiss escaped the blue-tinted lips. "Assuredly not, milord," he said, though all saw he lied. "I care for you—and for your house—as best I mat. But do not weary yourself or tax too heavily your strength. Let others deal with your irksome guests. Your meal is about to be set on the board… will you go to it?"

"I will," Théoden said. "And let food for my guests also be set beside me. The host rides today. Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses, let them be ready in the saddle ere the second hour from noon.!"

Wormtongue was taken aback. His eyes flitted from me to Théoden, from Théoden to Éomer, from Éomer to Gandalf, from Gandalf to Háma, from Háma to me. Our eyes met momentarily, in which time he sent me a glare of pure venom. I forced myself not to look away, and finally he turned back to Théoden. "Dear lord!" he cried. "It is as I feared! The wizard has bewitched you! Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your—treasures?" Once again his eyes lingered on me. Éomer made a fist. "None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

"If this is bewitchment," Théoden said, "It seems to me more wholesome than your whisperings. Your leechcraft ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast! Nay, not one shall be left—not even Gríma! Go! You have yet time to clean the rust from your sword!"

Wormtongue fell to his knees before Théoden. I looked down at him. He was a demon. A demon in human form. He could still do us harm, and I felt he would try. "Mercy, milord!" he cried. Éomer's hand strayed to his sword-hilt. "Have pity on one worn out in your service; send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Gríma away!"

Éomer snorted. Gandalf shot him a look.

"You have my pity," Théoden said. "And I do not send you from my side. I myself go to war with my men. I bid you come with me and prove your faith."

Wormtongue was looking around him with a hunted, frantic look in his eyes. He licked his lips nervously and stood up. "Such resolve might be expected from a lord of the House of Eorl, old though he be," he said. "But those who truly love him would spare his failing years! Yet I see I have come too late. Others, whom the death of my lord would perhaps grieve less"—a clever glance of scepticism towards Éomer—"have already persuaded him. If I cannot undo their work, hear me at least in this, milord! One who knows your mind and honours your commands should be left in Edoras. Appoint a faithful steward. Let your counsellor Gríma keep all things until your return—and I pray that I may see it, though no wise man will deem it hopeful."

Éomer laughed, holding me closer. "We know what all you would keep, Worm! My sister Éowyn will not be left unprotected in your care again! You seek to avoid fighting in battle, and see staying as steward an easy way to prey on those who cannot defend themselves!"

Wormtongue spat at him. "You lie!"

"That word comes to easily and too oft from your lips," Gandalf commented in a soft tone. "We do not lie." He turned to Théoden. "See, here is a snake! With safety you cannot take it with you, but nor can you leave it behind! To slay it would be just." Éomer moved to draw his sword, but Gandalf stopped him. "But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and did you service in its fashion. Give him a horse and let him go at once where he chooses. By his choice you shall judge him."

Théoden took a step towards Gríma. "Do you hear this, Gríma? This is your choice: to ride with me to war, or to go now whither you will. But then, if we ever meet again, I will not be merciful."

Wormtongue looked around. At all of us. I felt no pity for the snake caught in a hard place—a trap of his own making—only disgust and loathing. He stood as tall as he could and stared Gandalf straight in the eye—for a moment. Then he dropped his eyes and turned to Théoden. Théoden stared back placidly. So finally Womrntongue came to Éomer and I. Éomer glared so hatefully that he quickly looked away to me.

I forced myself to stay serene and hold his gaze. His face changed suddenly to hate and malice, and such was the force of it that I pulled back. He spat at me, and his spittle hit my cheek. He turned to the King and spat at his feet, then turned and fled.

"After him!" Théoden yelled as I wiped my cheek with my sleeve. "See that he does no harm to any, but do not harm or kinder him. Give him a horse if he wishes it."

Éomer said to me, "He will never touch you again, sister."

"I know," I said.

Aragorn came down from the house and approached me. "Milady," he said, "On my way into the city, my horse tripped over a flag of the Rohirrim. It is here—I hope you will be able to restore it."

I smiled. He did not know what it meant that he should care enough for our city to return the flag. "Many thanks, milord; it was torn from the battlements this morning."

"I saw. I also saw a woman, looking out over Rohan—was that you?"

"Yes, milord." I folded the flag and handed it to Hilandia, who had somehow appeared beside me in the confusion. She took it and left—for the kitchen, I suppose. Weynia was also there, batting her eyelashes at Éomer. I gave her a look, and she started to go after her mother.

Éomer had not missed the exchange. He grabbed her hand and whispered something in her ear that made her blush and giggle uncontrollably. I gave them both a scowl and retreated to change for dinner.

I changed from my simple white dress to a more elaborate blue and grey dress with a golden bodice and slipped into the kitchen, where Hilandia and Chänna were preparing dinner. Hilandia shooed me out and told me to attend to the King. I obeyed, waiting on him as I was accustomed, and then took my place lower at the table. In times gone by, Gríma was at his left and Théodred his right—as heir to the throne—but now Gandalf was at his left, after him were his other guests, and at his right was Éomer. I was seated beside Éomer.

Finally it was time to drink in honour of our guests and our happiness. Hilandia handed me the cup. I held it steady as I stood beside the King, looking into the cup. It reminded me of blood—and of the last time I had seen my father. He hand been born back by one of his men—Garulf had carried him on his horse.

"_It is Father!" I cried. I did not like my father, but perhaps it would make Mother happy. She had been listless and wan ever since he had left. She ran out of the house to the porch, a look a hope I had never seen before on her face. _

"_Éomund!" she whispered. Mother climbed upon the railing so she could see better. "No!" Her face was stricken as the figures became clearer, and we could see that our father lumped forward on his horse, and Garulf was behind him, holding him around the waist to keep him from falling. _

_A rider rode ahead of the company and said, "Hail, Théodwyn, Lady of Rohan! We bring fell tidings: your husband was slain in a skirmish."_

_I looked up. Mother did not weep; no tears ran down her cheek. Éomer bowed his head and put his arm around her. She shrugged it off._

"_Mother—" I began._

"_Éowyn!" Éomer cut me off._

_Mother ran towards them—through the gate and then through the fields. Her white skirts flew behind her as she pulled them up above her knees to run the faster. She stopped when she reached Garulf, and seemed to ask him something. He nodded, and lowered my father's body to the ground. Mother leaned over it. Her lips were moving, saying words I could only guess at. She looked back at us for a moment, and her face made me gasp. There were still no tears in her eyes, only a pain so indescribably sad and bitter. She rose from the ground. _

"_Why couldn't I go with you, Éomund?" she shrieked to the wind. We could barely hear her, though she was not so far away, so loud did the wind roar. "I wanted to die with you! I wanted to die _for_ you! I loved you!"_

_Garulf dismounted, and lifted my father's body back onto the horse. Mother mounted behind my father, and Garulf led the horse with the rest of the company. _

_The horse's hooves clip-clopped over the stones as they reached our House. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. _

_Hilandia ran out of the house. "Lady! Is he dead? Oh, my poor lady!" Hilandia had always called Mother _Lady_._

_Blood dripped from my father to the ground, forming a crimson pool on the clean stones. When Mother dismounted, I ran to her and hugged her around the waist—somehow I knew she needed it. Blood covered her dress—my father's blood. I felt sick. When Mother pulled away to help the men carry my father into the house, there was a red stain down the front of my dress. _

_Mother still wasn't crying. Even though she loved him, she didn't cry. I didn't cry; I didn't love him. I hated him. He had made Mother cry before; he had slapped me. I hated him. _

_Alone in the courtyard, I stared at the pool of blood on the ground. Crimson. Seeping. Blood._

Blood.

I shook my head to regain my thoughts—why did I have a cup in my hand?

It came to me. "Ferthu Théoden hál!" I said, proffering the cup. "Receive now this cup, and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy coming and thy going!"

He sipped a little and smiled at me. I smiled back. Then I carried the cup to Legolas. "Hail, Legolas son of Thranduil!" I had been told all the guests' names.

"Hail, Éowyn, lady of Rohan!"

"Hail, Gimli, son of Gloin!"

"Hail, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!"

I took it to Aragorn, and our eyes met. Once again, I had the sense he was reading my soul. I could no longer keep my voice clear and steady. "Hail, Aragorn, son of Arathorn!" I whispered, looking once more at the wine, moving in response to my breaths into the cup.

"Hail, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" His voice was low, but his did not shake, as mine did. And it was then I realised…

_I loved him._ There was no other explanation for the twisted feeling that I was going to suddenly explode—scream—laugh—weep. I had to love him.

I held his gaze for what seemed forever, and then I had to look away. Aragorn's gaze was too piercing, too hard, too kind, too wonderful. Yes, I was in love. These crazy thoughts could not come to my mind if I wasn't.

I was confused again. Then I realised… The cup. I had to give Aragorn the cup.

Somehow, I managed to extend my hand and give him the cup. Our fingers brushed—I trembled at the contact and almost dropped the goblet. I smiled at him, tentatively. His look was kind, but sad and troubled. I realised he somehow knew my thoughts. Why was that sad? Why was that troubling?


	10. From Farewell We Are Defenceless: Arwen

**Chapter V: From Farewell We Are Defenceless**

**25 Girithron, 3019**

"This is my last word to you," Adar said. I was standing in front of my handmaidens, watching the company. I had several, but Lambë was not only my handmaiden but also my confidant. The others were necessary for important occasions when a retinue was needed, or when one person was too few to assist me in preparations for a banquet or ceremony.

We had already suffered through a long speech by Adar; he was longwinded on important occasions. And now he was drawing near to the end. Aragorn and I had said our farewells earlier that morning.

When I woke up, he had been outside in the hall. For the sake of virtue, after I'd fallen asleep Aragorn had left the intimate chamber and slept outside the door. I had found him there, leaning against the wall, sleeping still.

"_Estel…" I whispered, stroking his face. _

_He jumped awake, his hand moving to his hip where his sword would be in the wilderness. _

"_Don't you ever let your guard down?" I whispered, sitting down beside him. _

"_Can I afford to?" he replied, putting an arm around my shoulders to keep me warm. _

"_Here you are safe, Estel." I leaned my head against his chest. "No one can hurt you."_

"_Perhaps there is no one that can hurt me here. But farewell is a foe I have no defence from." _

"_I know," I kissed his neck. "I know. But someday we will have no more farewells."_

"_Except one."_

"_Years hence, Estel."_

"_This will be our last one until then, I promise, Arwen."_

_His lips met mine as I pulled him to a standing position. "You will be late, meleth-nin__8__."_

_He put his arms around me. "Then I will be late."_

_I pulled away. "You have a visit to make before you go, Estel."_

_I left Aragorn alone at his mother's grave; I retired to my chambers to change out of my thin night attire and into the lavender gown Lambë had left for me draped over a chair. Once I had changed, I returned to his side. He had cleaned the leaves and dust from the old statue of Gilraen—his mother— that stood guard over the grave, and now he stood looking at it, withdrawn in his own thoughts. _

_He spoke, sensing my presence. "I plan to have her grave moved to Gondor, if…"_

"_And you will place her in Rath Dínen?"_

"_Yes."_

"_She will love that."_

"_I hope so." _

"_Estel…" I began, tremulously. "I promise I will be waiting for you to return, forever."_

"_I know, meleth-nin."_

"_I love you." I held him close, savouring the few moments we had together._

"_I love you, too." He kissed me hard in the mouth._

The memory of that conversation was burned into our minds, and it would never be forgotten. Even if—perish the thought—Aragorn fell into darkness and I was left alone in Imladris to die alone, we would never forget that moment.

We were watching each other, trying to burn the other's image on our minds, as Adar continued. "The Ringbearer's companions go with him as _free_ companions—to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid upon you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your own hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet with upon their road."

The Dwarf spoke up; I heard his words, but could not look away form Aragorn. "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."

Adar replied, "Maybe; but let him not vow to walk in the dark who has not yet seen the nightfall."

"Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," the Dwarf insisted.

"Or break it," Adar coolly answered. "Look not too far ahead! But now go with good hearts. Farewell, and may the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you!"

Aragorn locked eyes with me again.

_I love you, Arwen._

_Come back to me_. A tear fell silently down my cheek. No one was looking at us—they were looking at the others. I wanted to run into his arms; I wanted to scream; he was leaving; he was turning towards the gate… all around me were calling farewell in lilting Elven voices.

_No! One more word—one more touch—one more kiss—one more second—one more moment—one more day—one more lifetime!_

I found my voice at last. "The Valar be with you, Estel!"

He turned back for a moment. "And with you, Lady," he said softly. I could barely hear his voice amidst the sounds about me—the Elves, the wind moaning like a lonely child, the echoing of stones underfoot.

Yes! I could discern each step—the pitter-pattering of the Hobbits; the heavy clump of the Dwarf; the rustle that was the footstep of Legolas; the assured strides of Boromir; the measured and even steps of Gandalf and Aragorn.

My eyes followed him until there was only a moment left in which he might turn—now a second—half second… he turned when there was a quarter second—our gaze met for the merest eighth of a second… and he was gone. The Sundering Seas between us lay, and my only prayer was that we might someday find our way and meet once more, and pass away in the forest singing sorrowless.

8. _Meleth-nin_: my love; from the Sindarin


	11. Left Behind: Eowyn

**Chapter V: Left Behind**

**02 March, 3019**

Aragorn seemed to avoid me after that: he would not meet my gaze; ever his eyes had a turmoil of worry. I, for my part, was in raptures in the realisation that I _loved him_. I loved him more and differently than I had ever loved Théodred and Éomer. I was _in love_—and now I felt even more guilt for my feelings towards Théodred. If he had felt the same passion when he looked at me as I did when I looked at Aragorn, he deserved more than the brotherly love I had offered, I ought to have forced myself to love him, or not deceived him by accepting his lovesuit.

Yet I had not refused him and I had not hated him—I had loved him dearly, as a brother. But I now knew that I could not have kept my true feelings secret, and I hated to think of the pain that it would have caused him to learn that I did not return his love.

But he was dead now, and all that was left was my love for Aragorn. Yes, love—born only moments ago—moments that felt like a lifetime.

The King went unassisted to the doors—I couldn't remember the last time he had walked, not hobbled, or having to be supported. The guards were waiting. I followed in his wake with Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

"Behold!" The King's voice echoed across the plains and bounced off the hills. _Behold…! Behold…! Behold…! _"And it seems like my last riding!" _Riding…! Riding…! Riding…! _"I have no child!" _No child…! No child…! No child…!_ "Théoden my son is slain!" The words beat into my brain, awakening more pain and guilt: _Is slain…! Is slain…! Is slain…! _"I name Éomer my sister-son to be my heir." _My heir…! My heir…! My heir…! _"If neither of us returns, than choose a new lord as you will." _You will…! You will…! You will…! _"But to someone I must now entrust my people whom I leave behind; to rule them in my place." _My place…! My place…! My place…! _"Which of you will stay?" _Will stay…? Will stay…? Will stay…? _

No one spoke. No man wanted to be left. I wanted to go—was sure they could not leave me—they knew I could fight as well as a man!

"Is there no one you would name?" _Would name…? Would name…? Would name…?_

More silence.

"In whom do my people trust?" _People trust…? People trust…? People trust…?_

Háma spoke up staunchly. "In the House of Eorl!" _House of Eorl…! House of Eorl…! House of Eorl…! _His voice was deeper than Théoden's—the faint echoes melded with Théoden's reply. "But Éomer I cannot spare, and he is the last of the House!" _Last of the House…! Last of the House…! Last of the House…!_

I bowed my head to hide my anger at being forgotten again. I was a woman, not worthy to bear the name of Eorl. I had been forgotten again.

But Háma had not forgotten me—he had meant me all along. "I spoke not of Éomer, milord, and he is _not_ the last," he said, not loudly enough to create an echo, taking me by the hand and leading me forward so all could see me. "There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her, milord. Let her be a lady to the Eorlingas while we are away."

I blushed as the men gathered broke into applause. I wanted to for with them. I despaired for that loss—but not all had forgotten the sister-daughter of Théoden King! I was remembered—and _loved by all_! I smiled, though my heart nearly broke.

"It shall be so!" Théoden's words, as a fetter, echoed all around me—jeering at me: _It shall be so…! It shall be so…! It shall be so…! _"Let the heralds announce that the Lady Éowyn shall lead them!" _Éowyn shall lead them…! Éowyn shall lead them…! Éowyn shall lead them…!_

Théoden sat down, overcome by the effort. I looked to Éomer, hoping for some intervention that would allow me to follow the men into battle, but he shook his head. _No, Éowyn,_ it said. I wrinkled my nose at him in irritation.

I looked at Aragorn, but he was watching Théoden.

At Hama's cue, I knelt before Théoden, and received a sword better than the one I had gotten from Théodred. This one was sharp, though it bore the signs of previous use, with all the signs of the Rohirrim emblazoned on it. I smiled again, hiding the sorrow I felt being left behind.

"Farewell, sister-daughter," he cried when I had risen, and examined the sword, and sheathed it, tying it at my hip alongside my other sword. _Daughter…! Daughter…! Daughter…!_ "Dark is the hour, yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall." _Golden Hall…! Golden Hall…! Golden Hall…! _"But in Dunharrow the people may long defend themselves, and if the battle go ill, thither will come those who escape." _Who escape…! Who escape…! Who escape…! _

I spoke up, willing my voice to echo as my uncle and Hama's voices had. "Speak not so!" _Speak not so…! Speak not so…! Speak not so…! _My voice did echo, but the soprano light tones after Théoden's tenor and Hama's rumble were harsh to my ears. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your returning." _Your returning…! Your returning…! Your returning…! _As I allowed my eyes to meet Aragorn's, the words seemed to change in meaning. Instead they screamed, _You're returning! You're returning! You're returning! _

I smiled; he smiled: yet the smile was not in his eyes—it did not even seem to be a smile—merly a movement of the lips. It was a sad smile—such a sad smile. I realised in my heart that here was a man that had suffered much. Aragorn hurt—not physically, though scars on his arms and face bore testimony to the fact that that kind of pain was not foreign, either—but he… his very soul was in pain.

_Let me rescue you_, I thought to him.

For a moment—so clear had been the thought in my mind—I half-fancied I had actually said it out-loud. looked down to hide the hot flush covering my cheeks. Then I realised the impossibilities of this, and looked up. Théoden and Gandalf went down the steps, deep in conversation. Legolas murmured a congratulation to me that was hardly more than a sound. Gimli followed, taking three steps to his companion's one. Aragorn followed them, I assumed.

I didn't look up, but sank to the step, hardly able to hold myself up. The porch was deserted… the Lady Éowyn, "loved by all" was alone. But loneliness is easier to bear when your body is alone, than when three hundred eyes are upon you—I knew by experience.

Unable to hold it in anymore, I let all my emotions out—my worry—my joy—my love—my fear—my excitement—my tension—all of it erupted form my soul in the form of one tearless sob. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed, though no tears came. I was dry—my tears had been sucked from me, starting with Mother's death and ending with this disappointment. And now, when I knew that tears would help me the most, they would not come.

After a few moments of wallowing in my hopelessness, I emerged the pool of despair and raised my head. My eyes met Aragorn's once more. He was standing over me, staring at me with a look of intense pity. His eyes were filled with the tears I could not shed.

Startled, I stayed locked in his gaze before I recovered my senses. But then I leapt to my feet and, nodding to him, walked into the House as calmly as I could, trying to make up for the moment of weakness he had witnessed.


	12. Support Unlooked For: Arwen

**Chapter VI: Support Unlooked For**

**25 December 3018**

_He's gone,_ I told myself as the porch began to empty. _No more words. No more looks. No more kisses. No more moments when you could explode from the shear love and emotion tingling in every part of you. _

_He's gone, Arwen._

I heard a step behind me and looked up. It was Adar.

"Arwen." His voice was cool, as it had been last night.

"Ada." I imitated his smooth tone.

"Manen ná elyë9?" he asked in Elvish. His voice sounded… forced. He looked tired and weary, as if he had had a restless night after we had parted.

"I am sad, Ada," I answered in the Common Tongue. Not so beautiful as Quenya, the Common Tongue of mortals was a language I had adopted for future days in Gondor, when few would remain who still spoke Elvish.

Adar ignored the difference of language and continued in Elvish. "Manen?"

"Because the company has left." Still I spoke in the Common Tongue.

"Cenyen.10" _Of course you see! You see _everything_--except what you _must_ see!_

"You wonder at that?" I was verging on biting-sarcastic, and knew I was coming close to severe disrespect.

"Ye… fairerya ná lá naicelëa11?"

"His presence has never been painful to me!" _How can you think that? Who do you think I am?_

Adar broke from his Quenyan and shouted in the Common Tongue, "How can you look at him and not see the day you and he will part, never to meet again? How can you love him, knowing the price you will pay? Where is your mind?"

I screamed back at him. "Fear of death cannot break the bonds of love! Your words are useless… I refuse to listen to any of this! You don't understand anything! You never have and you never will!"

I whirled away, making my way back into the house. As I passed an open room, I overheard Ergil, an Elf visiting from Mirkwood, say, "She will marry out of the Twilight?"

"Aye," Lambë replied. "She loves Lord Aragorn--surely you have noticed!"

"It is fated to be so: the Elves of Imladris lose their brightest star forever." Bragolcú.

Ergil: "And are you sure it will not simply pass? Give her time, perhaps, and--"

I walked into the room. The Elves stopped talking and looked slightly abashed. "It will never pass."

Ergil swept forward with a disarming grin and bowed. "Apologies, milady: we were not aware you heard us."

I stepped back, feeling too close to him. "I did hear, and I disliked the fact that my servants gossip under my very nose!"

"Milady, you cannot expect others to not voice their disapproval of this engagement. I wonder that your father indulges your whim."

"Because he cannot stop me," I snapped. He opened his mouth to protest, but I had had enough of protests. "And neither can you!" I told him. "Or you!" to Bragolcú. "Or you!" to Lambë.

I stalked out and slipped back to my chambers. I wished I could go back to Lorien, where I could be left alone for days on end--no one saying anything--asking anything--telling anything. The hours when Galadriel and I had stood in the woods near her esoteric mirror, not even looking at one another, wrapped up in our private thoughts, had been the happiest moments I had ever known. She and I had, at other times, had long conversations in which I was a little child talking to an adult, so wise and understanding was she.

"Lady Galadriel, I wish you were here now," I whispered, leaning my head against a pillar.

A hand on my shoulder made me turn around. It was Celebgil. "Lady," he said. His eyes had a pleasantly idle look in them, as if he had few troubles now, when all our hopes rested on one small Hafling on his way to the east.

"Milord," I nodded. "What do you want?"

"To speak with you. I have heard that you have much to think of, and wanted to offer my harp as a relaxant. It helps many people… it is as good as wine, some say."

I did not play the harp. "What use would I have for it?"

"I will play it for you. Your mind will find rest that way."

I leaned my head back against the pillar and waited as he arranged his harp, situated himself, and began to play. I waited to hear something like what he usually played--little ditties in praise of the Valar, humorous poems from the Shire, and traditional Elven tributes to the Sundering Seas and to Valinor.

The leaves were long, the grass was green,  
The hemlock umbels tall and fair…

I opened my eyes and looked at him in astonishment. He smiled at me and stopped playing. "You do not appreciate it? I thought the Lay of Lúthien might be appropriate, but if it offends, or cuts too deeply…"

"Milord, you approve of my choice?" I half-gasped.

"You love him, do you not?"

"Of course I do!" I said.

"Then does it matter, really, what I or anyone else think?"

"No." And it didn't.

"Your father is against you."

"Yes."

"Your people appear to be against you, also."

I remembered Ergil. "Yes."

"But perhaps… there may be those who are not against you, though they do not say. Perhaps there are those that wish you all the blessings of the Valar, and would do anything to see you get your heart's desire.

"But as that is merely supposition: may I play for you now?"

"Yes," I beamed at him.

_The leaves were long…_

I sighed and leaned again into the pillar, sliding down until I was seated on the ground at Celebgil's feet, content, for the moment, to listen to the tale of the two that held fast to what they wanted, and followed through, even after death.

9. Manen ná elyë: How are you (note: _Manen _is used for the words _how _and_ why_)

10. Cenyen: I see.

11. Fairerya ná lá naicelëa: I would have thought his presence was painful to you (Literally: Present-spirit-his is not painful?)


	13. Because They Love Thee: Eowyn

**Chapter VII: "Because They Love Thee"**

**7 March, 3019**

I sat down, exhausted, on my luggage. We had made it. We were in Dunharrow. No sooner than the men had ridden off to battle had I organised the remaining women and children into a company, giving them about an hour to gather their belongings. We gone slowly, for many were old or burdened with their children. A few of the women were with child. Once to Dunharrow, we had set up tents for the refugees to stay in. I was now in mine.

And so, the journey had been hard… very hard. The fact that _I_ had single-handedly led the company from Edoras—_I _had been the chosen leader!—rang like a victory cry over and over in my heart. But still there was the ache that _I had not gone to fight_… that hurt, and counterbalanced the joy. Aragorn had seen me—his last view of me had been of me with my head in my hands—sobbing. No doubt he now thought me a shallow woman of the Rohirrim; he thought me like Weynia.

I wondered what, exactly, he thought of me. Did he have _any _respect for me? Did he see me, in any way, as the shield-maiden I dreamt of being? Once Weynia had told me, as I was getting dressed, "You look like a daughter of Rohan." But could she be trusted not to flatter me with false praise?

I had made it my goal, ever since my defiant protest to my father on the steps of our house, to become a shield-maiden of Eorl. But did my hard work in fencing, horses, and even fist-to-fist combat really show through? Théodred had promised me, when I first came to Edoras, that someday I could prove whether I was fit to be a daughter of Rohan.

"_But first, Éowyn," he said, handing me a slender sword, "You must learn to use this."_

_I took it. It was a short sword, rusty and somewhat beat-up. "I don't know how to use it," I said. _

_Éomer drew his sword and saluted me, saying, "I will teach you, Éowyn."_

I had learned quickly from my brother and cousin. Very soon, I was able to parry Éomer's blows and do my own part at assault.

But a few days later, I grew exasperated at the way the men ignored my efforts. They still treated me as one unable to defend herself, even among the race that survived because of Haleth, a woman that had taken leadership long before Eorl.

"_How can I ever be a shield-maiden if no one will give me a chance?" I asked Théodred. _

"_I promise, Éowyn, that someday you will get your chance. We all get a chance at some point or another. But we have to prove ourselves—and be ready for it, when it comes."_

I could use a blade well now, and I was ready to use it. But would I ever be able to prove it? I drew the new sword, the one Théoden had given me. I moved lithely, as Théodred had taught me, the blade humming through the air.

My reverie was interrupted by a gentle voice, calling outside. "Yes?" I called, sheathing my sword.

An old woman came in, holding in her arms a small infant. Tears ran down her face.

"What is the matter, grandmother?" I asked.

"My husband is gone; my son is gone; his wife is dead from fever, and entrusted her child to me. But he is young, and I have no milk. He will die."

"No, grandmother," I said, taking the baby from her arms. "He will not die; my handmaiden will find someone to nurse him for you; do not worry. I will see to it."

Upon leaving his grandmother's arms, the child let out a wail. I held him against my chest and sang to him as I gently made my way through the tents of Dunharrow to find Weynia. I found her talking to her mother. Hilandia was saying, "Dear, I am _sure_ Éomer will be fine."

The hellish journey and my stress and weariness had made my sarcasm biting and angry, unjustified as the provocation might me. "And if he doesn't survive the battle, Weynia," I told her, "I wouldn't worry! There will always be other men to steal from their sisters!"

Her green eyes got large and wet with tears, and she vanished into a nearby tent to cry. I ignored her; this was no place for tears. "Hilandia," I said, holding out the child, "Find a woman to nurse this baby—if she will not do it without price, tell her I will pay her well."

She nodded and left. I sighed wearily. I wanted to scream—cry—to do anything. Skulking in the hills had not been my goal. Why couldn't we fight—make some brave last stand to be remembered by all who came after? All of us, from Weynia to the baby I had just given to Hilandia, could have our share of glory—what we deserved! From the old men to the small girls, we could all be remembered, and not fade away as leaves, never to be recalled by name again, only as a mist of a people long since departed.

A messenger tugged my sleeve. "Lady, the Lord Aragorn and his company are coming."

I suddenly wasn't so weary. "Prepare lodgings for them as quickly as you can—but also as fine as you can! Hurry!"

He left. I flew to my tent to change out of dowdy peasant travelling dress. I changed into a light grey dress with a golden belt, and put a white cloak over it. I brushed my blond hair until it shown, and plaited it into several braids that Weynia pulled back into a hair-clasp that had once been my mother's. Then I ran to the gates to greet our guests.

Aragorn looked sterner—older—than the last time I had seen him… he was different in some way. There were scars on his body from the battle; in places they still bled. I would have sent for a healer to take care of them, but he told me not to. "They are not more than I have endured before, and I am not unskilled in the arts of healing," he told me. "But I thank you for your generosity."

"What new companions do you bring?" I asked, for many that were with him were not the same as those who had departed Edoras a few days ago.

Aragorn introduced the company as his kinsmen, a host of Dunedain, and that the captains were Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond Half-Elven.

"You are all welcome to Dunharrow, milords," I said. "We have prepared lodgings for you, and a meal as well. Will you come and eat?"

I seated Aragorn at my right, and on my left, Legolas and Gimli. Through dinner, they told me of the battle. I could see that Weynia was much gratified to learn that Éomer yet lived; I had never doubted it.

Towards the end of the meal, Aragorn said, "Milady, a request I would make."

"Yes milord?" My cheeks flushed from the feeling of being so near to him…

"One of my companions will come with the king, perhaps a few days hence. He is a Hafling, and very dear to me; his name is Meriadoc. Would you have some form of weaponry prepared for him? I would see him clad for war."

"Yes, milord," I said, but my mind scarcely registered the words. I absent-mindedly resumed eating, listening to Legolas tell some story of how he and Gimli had sported all through the battle, counting fallen foes felled by their hand.

When all were finished, I rose, and looking at Aragorn, said: "Lords, you are weary and shall now go to your beds with such ease as can be contrived in haste." They nodded their thanks and rose. I added, "But tomorrow, fairer housing shall be found for you."

Aragorn said, "Nay, milady, be not troubled for us."

_Being troubled for you is what I would spend the rest of my life doing, _I thought.

"If we may lie here tonight, and break our fast tomorrow, it will be enough. For I ride on an errand most urgent, and with the first light of morning we must go."

"Then it was kindly done, milord, to ride so many miles out of your way to bring tidings to me, and to speak with me." I beamed, feeling that even if my love had remained hidden to him before, surely he saw now.

His face grew graver. "No man could count such a journey wasted, milady." I blushed. "But I could not have come hither to see you if it were not the road which I must take runs through Dunharrow."

My smile froze, and I went from red to white. "Milord," I choked, "You are astray—out of Dunharrow no road runs east or south. I suppose you had best come back the way you came." Yet I felt somehow he was not astray… only very, very foolish. His next words convinced me of this.

"Nay, milady," he said. "I am not astray, for I walked this land ere you were born to grace it. There is a road out of this valley other than the one I came by, and that is the road I shall take. Tomorrow I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead."

I had known what he was alluding to, of course, but to hear him name that road—so bluntly—so—_calmly_—it was as if he had struck me. I did not want him to die—I would not let him die—I could not let him die. I _had_ to tell him what he was doing—yes, he had said he had been here, but the hope that he did not know what he spoke of would not leave me.

"Is it then your errand to seek death?" I asked. "That is all you will find on that road, Aragorn. _They _do not suffer the living to pass." They. The ghosts of people long ago—warriors that could and would kill anyone in their homeland. I had felt a little nervous dwelling near them for a time—but he would ride into their midst? Mighty weapons had Aragorn and his company, but no weapons of any make could stand against the Dead—and who would experiment to see if his could? No man had dared to go there since Baldor, son of King Brego, had vowed he would tread them. He had been drunk, would not let any say him nay. He had never returned…

"They may suffer me to pass," Aragorn said. I wanted to scream _May?! _May_?! Do you know how small that _may_ is?!_ "But at the least I will adventure it. No other road will serve."

The road through the mountains was faster to get to Gondor, true—_but only if one lived to cross it._

I lost my pretence of gentle advice—now I was begging him to hear me. "But this is madness!" I cried, drawing the attention of all in the room. "For here are men of renown and prowess, whom you should not lead into the shadows, but lead to war, where men are needed!"

He shook his head. "Milady—"

"I beg you to remain here with me—to await the coming of my brother Éomer and the King. Then all our hearts will be gladdened, and our hope the brighter." I wanted to shake him—somehow force him to listen to me—to tell him what he would not hear.

He put his hand on my shoulder. I had never noticed how much taller he was—I had to look up to see his face, and I wasn't used to that. I was always the tallest one—always the one to bend down to see the other's eyes—always the one who spoke in the earnest, quiet voice. I had never, or rarely, been the one who looked up—who was a little intimidated by the superior height and build—who pleaded with her eyes instead of her mouth.

"It is not madness, lady," he said in a low tone. "For I go on a path appointed. But those who follow me do so of their own free will; and if they wish to remain now and ride with the Rohirrim, they may do so. But I shall take the Paths of the Dead—alone, if need be." _Alone…! Alone…! Alone…!_ The words echoed in my mind like Théoden's words had at the gates of Edoras. _Alone_. No, he would not go alone. Not while I lived.

I needed a few moments to think and to plan. Hilandia and Weynia showed the men to their booths while I changed yet again, this time to a gown that accentuated my femininity. It was pure white silk overlaid in gauze, and fell about me gently. The girdle was silver, and the neckline was woven with silver thread in the pattern of tiny horses. I released my hair and let it fall in waves down my back. And then, having checked my appearance in a mirror and finding it pleasing, I slipped out of my tent and went to the booth where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were staying. Aragorn wasn't there yet, and Gimli was already asleep, but Legolas was sitting outside the door, deep in his thoughts.

When I approached, he looked up and saw me. "Milady, why are you here?" His eyes were confused. I could only imagine what he thought my intents were.

"I must speak with the Lord Aragorn when he comes."

He knew what I wanted, now. "He will not be convinced, milady. You do not know all that must come to pass."

"No, but I know what must _not_ come to pass." I felt the coming tears choking me, and barely managed to hold them back. "And Aragorn must _not_ die."

Legolas shook his head, and I wondered what he was thinking about. "No, milady, he must not die."

"You agree then," I said earnestly. "Why do you go with him? If he will die—how can you let him go?"

He looked at me hard. "Lady Éowyn, he goes because he must. I follow because I love him; because I would not be parted."

I turned away from him to hide my expression and buy me time to think of a reply. I saw Aragorn coming. Legolas saw him too, and tactfully went into the tent to leave us alone.

Aragorn was also surprised to see me. "Milady—"

I didn't give him time to make any assumptions. "Aragorn, why will you go on this deadly road?"

"Because I must." _Because I must_. Almost the same words Legolas had used. "Only this way can I see any hope of doing my part in the war against Sauron. I do not choose paths of peril, milady. Were I to go where my heart dwells, far in the North would I now be wandering in the fair valley of Imladris."

"_Who gave you the necklace?" I asked. _

"_A woman from the valley of Imladris."_

The words he had spoken at our first meeting rang in my mind. The woman who had given him his neckace lived in the valley of Imladris. His necklace lost its sparkle for me—it was as ugly and destestable as the orcs that raped our land. I hated the woman—hated her for owning a part of Aragorn I could never know—for owning his love.

I swayed a little bit, as thoughts flew through my head, and I was overwhelmed with ideas—and feelings—and emotions—and put my hand on his arm to steady myself. "You are a stern lord," I said coldly, "And resolute. And thus do men win renown." I stopped, as the idea that had come to me became rock-solid determination. "Milord, if you must go, then let me ride in your following." His eyes widened. "For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril in battle!" We would never reach Gondor, I knew, for through those paths there could be no crossing, but at the very least, I could die with him.

Aragorn shook his head, and looked straight into my eyes. I met them with an intensity that he must have felt. "Your duty is with your people," he said.

_Duty_. I never wanted to hear that word again. My duty had been to obey Hilandia, then to care for Théoden. I did not want duty. How could he ask me to stay with these old ones, while my brother and uncle did all I had ever desired—all I'd ever wanted! And now he would go, and would not return, and I would be forced to stay. When they had all died, I would die, and I would be glad of it. But until then, could I do nothing?

"Too often have I heard of duty!" I cried loudly. "But am I not a shield-maiden of the House of Eorl, and not a dry nurse? I have waited on faltering feet long enough, Aragorn—waiting for someone to let me have my chance—to let me prove that I am as good as a man! Since my feet falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?"

He looked away from me, and when he looked back, tears glittered in his eyes. "Few may do that with honour," he said slowly. "But as for you, lady: did you not accept the charge to govern the people until their King's return? If you had not been chosen, some marshal or captain would have been chosen, and he could not ride away from his charge, were he weary or no."

_Chosen._ "Shall I always be chosen, Aragorn?" _Yes—you will never get your chance. You are ready and waiting—but your chance will never come._ "Shall I always be chosen? Shall I always be left behind when the Riders depart, to mind the House while they win renown, and find food and bed when they return?"

"A time may come soon, lady, when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be the less valiant because they are unpraised."

I refused to acknowledge the hidden message in his words, that it was valiant to stay with the people and guide them, but instead spat at him, saying, "And all your words only mean: _You are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died, in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no longer." _

I drew my sword and looked at it, shimmering in the moonlight. "Aragorn, I am a shield-maiden of the House of Eorl, and not a serving woman. You speak of duty. My duty is to be a shield-maiden of Eorl, and to take my chance when it comes. I can ride, and weild a blade, and I do not fear pain or death. I—" I stopped.

"What _do_ you fear, milady?" he bent closer. Our heads were almost touching. I was tempted to lean up the few inches it would take and kiss him.

_I fear _you_, _I thought. _I fear that you will die, and I will be left alone_.

"_Mother."_ I didn't say it, only shaped it with my lips. Mother had wanted to go with my father, and he had died. She had wanted to die with him. She had not wanted to be alone. She had wanted her chance. _You never got your chance, Mother! You _should_ have had your chance—weren't you ready?_ What I feared most was to stay… to be left alone… to miss my chance. It might never come again—Mother had had her one chance, and she had missed it.

"A cage," I said at last. "To stay behind bars until use and old-age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone—beyond recall or desire."

He closed his eyes. I tingled with the sensation of my hand on his arm; his breath on my face; strands of his hair that were touching my forehead… "And yet you counselled me not to adventure on the road that I had chosen because it was perilous?"

He had caught me in a trick question. I was not going to stop and explain; he sought to confuse me and make me give up. I wouldn't—I loved him too much to let him go without a bigger fight than he had anticipated. "So may one counsel another," I said. "But I do not bid you flee from peril, but to ride to war, where men are needed! There in battle your sword may win renown and victory." I bit my lip for a moment, and my voice trembled as I said, "I would not see a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly!"

But he didn't move. He gently removed my hand from his arm, and brought it to his lips. "Nor would I. Therefore I say to you: Lady, stay! You have no errand in the South."

I pulled away, half-mad with disappointment and reeling from the nearness. "Neither have those that go with thee," I retorted. "They go only because they love thee, and they would not be parted from thee." I started towards my tent, and then turned. He was still standing, looking after me. "And nor would I!" I cried, not caring what sleeping men I woke. Then I turned again towards my tent and ran away from him.

I burst into the tent in a fury. Hilandia leaped to her feet, startled. Weynia had been lying on the floor, already asleep, but she woke and looked up at me. "Why, whatever is the matter?" I barely heard her for the pounding in my ears.

I glared at her, and then yelled a string of words at her and Aragorn that made her eyes widen. Hilandia covered her ears and pointed to my bed. "Rest, Lady, please. They will hear you all over the camp." She was desperate.

I obeyed, feeling more compliant after my outburst. For long time I lay there, without sleeping, thinking over what to do. Finally, I fell into a fitful a dreamless sleep.

12. _Éorlian_: I am worriedly awaiting the criticism at this coinage of Éorl. The word appears nowhere in _LotR_, and as some form of it had to appear here, I have invented the word _Éorlian._ I don't _think_ Tolkien would mind… I hope.


	14. There Is Still Hope: Arwen

**Chapter VII: There Is Still Hope**

**16 Narwain, 3019**

It had been three weeks since Aragorn and the company had left. I spent most of my time listening to Celebgil play his harp for me; lying on my bed, half-asleep; or browsing in the great library of Imladris. I was in my bed now, reading the ancient story of Lúthien and Beren, when Adar entered my chambers. I sat up, and nodded to him. I knew what he was here for.

"Arwen…"

"I have made my choice," I said without turning. "I will not change my mind."

"Why not? Is death so welcome to you?"

"No—but Estel is worth it."

"He will die, Arwen."

"And what of it? You have told me that! Say something you haven't said! Is our time left together so short that you must spoil it with your attempts to sway me? I will not be swayed!"

"I love you, Arwen," he said. "All I am doing is trying to make you see what you are doing—"

"I know what I'm doing." I turned away, looking out the window. "I do not need to be told."

"Do you see this as a game, Arwen—your chance to be different than the other Elves? Don't you see, you are plunging a knife into your heart—and into mine!"

I cried, beginning to weep, "Don't you want me to be happy, Ada?"

He sat down next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Of course I do, daughter. But I want you to live—and I don't want to lose you, as Thingol lost Lúthien…"

"You already have!" I choked. "We have so little time before the end—must I always remember you as my tormentor? I love you, Ada… I don't want it to end this way."

"How would you have it then, Arwen?" His voice was cold.

"I would I had never known immortality," I said. "I would Aragorn and I were simple Men, and not kings or of the Twilight."

"That is impossible."

"You didn't ask the possible. But now since you ask it: I woul wait for Aragorn, and when he comquers Sauron, and becomes the King of Arnor and Gondor, marry him, and live with him in bliss for a time, and die like other mortals, and fade away."

"Arwen…"

I looked up at him. He, too, was weeping. I embraced him. "We have only a little time, my father. But we have _now_."

We sat there for some hours in silence, sharing the time that remained to him in Middle-Earth, when he suddenly shook himself, remembering. "Oh—yes. I came in here to tell you something important."

"What is it?"

"I no longer sense the presence of Vilya."

Vilya was the Ring of Fire, born by Gandalf. For the Ring to not be sensed by Elrond, who bore Narya, would mean Vilya's bearer was dead. For Gandalf to be dead would mean something fatal had happened to the company… and Aragorn.

I leaped to my feet. "What has happened?" I screamed. "Ada, what has happened? Is Aragorn all right?"

"I do not know, Arwen."

"Where is he? What has happened?"

"I do not know."

"Ada…" I continued to weep, clenching and unclenching my fists. "He can't be dead. Something must have happened…"

"We do not _know_ he is dead, no."

"I know he is _not_ dead!" I shrieked. "He cannot be dead! He is not dead!"

"Arwen—you will do yourself harm—"

I pulled away from his comforting arm. "He is not dead!"

"He could be dead."

"He is not!"

I ran out of the room. He stayed. Lambë followed me; she had been listening. I screamed when Ergil blocked my path. "Lady, what is the matter?"

"He's not dead!" I shoved past him, past Bragolcú, to an empty room further down the hall. I shut myself in it, sitting down to pace myself. In this room, only a few weeks ago, Aragorn and I had trysted. He had told me to meet him here; that he had something important to say to me.

"_What is it?" I asked. _

"_I need you to know that there is the chance I may not come back, Arwen. That there is not as much hope as you think."_

_I shook my head, touching the pendant he wore around his neck. "There is still hope; you said so yourself."_

"_That was a long time ago, Arwen."_

"_How can you say this to me?" _Especially now, when you are leaving so soon?

"_I need you to know the truth before I go… don't carry false hope, meleth-nin."_

"_I do not carry false hope and I never have. I know the dangers. But I also know that you will come back."_

"_But if I don't—promise me you will go with your father to Valinor."_

"_I can't promise you that, Estel."_

"_You must… there is so little hope for us… it is almost gone."_

_I held his head in my hands and pulled him down to my level. "Trust me. There is still hope."_

"_What hope?" he asked despairingly. _

"You_. Estel: The Hope of the Elves. Trust you." I kissed him. "Trust us. You know there is still hope."_

"There is still hope," I said quietly, awakening from my reverie.


	15. I Beg Thee!: Eowyn

**Chapter VII: "I Beg Thee!"**

**08 March, 3019**

I rose early and had Hilandia prepare a cup of wine. The Sun would not rise for an hour, I deemed. I had perhaps a quarter of an hour before Aragorn left—maybe more. I prayed for Hilandia to hurry—she had to hurry!

I dressed hurriedly in the frigid morning air: I wore white men's breeches under a white riding dress (the sides were slit to the waist) with a grey tunic over it. Then my forest-green cloak—I put the hood over my loose hair, which I didn't have time to braid.

Hilandia _finally_ came with the wine. I ran, careful not to spill it, out to the gates. All were mounted but Legolas and Aragorn, and the latter had his foot in the stirrup—Legolas was still assisting Gimli, who rode behind, to mount.

"Stay, milord!" I called to him, slowing to a walk. He seemed to flinch when he heard my voice, and turning, his eyes filled with pain and pity for me. I stepped closer, until we were almost touching. His horse was not Hasufel; it was one his companions from the West had brought. He had called it Roheryn the night before—_Horse of the Lady_. I hated the horse and whatever lady had given it to him—no doubt the same who had given him the necklace. "Drink of the cup of farewell, that you may be granted good speed on your journey."

But there would be no speed on the road he sought.

He drank a little, and said, "Farwell, Lady of Rohan! I drink to the fortunes of your House, and of you, and of all your people. Say to your brother: _Beyond the shadows we may yet meet again_." He handed the cup back to me, and I deliberately set my lips where his had been. His eyes told me he had seen it, and I blushed.

"Aragorn, wilt thou go?" I pleaded. I knew he would, of course. And yet his next words were a blow.

"I will." His eyes begged me: _Don't ask, milady. Don't ask._

_Can't you see I have to? Can't you see I have to try to save you from your folly, and if I cannot, I have to die with you? _

I knew the answer to this as well, but I had to ask—I felt as if I were an actress, reading the words in a play written and performed many times, and will do many more times… "Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?"

He shook his head. "I will not, milady."

My cheeks burned, and I stepped back as if he had struck me.

"I will not," he repeated, "For that I could not grant without permission of the King or your brother, and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"

He was turning back towards his horse—only a second remained for me to ask before it was too late—but to ask again would be to beg.

Suddenly—I don't know how I and never will—tears were streaming down my cheeks—tears in the eyes of the woman who had not cried for eleven years. Tears for a hundred different emotions—I couldn't name all of them. Something snapped in me—some strong thread that held my pride attached to me; moored to the ground. And now it was floating away—I was floating—a million things rushed through my mind at once—despair; love—and peace. Yes, I was free now. Eorlian12 pride had kept me tied down so long I had forgotten I was caged—but now I was free!

Why had I feared to show my tears? What did I think would happen if they saw that Éowyn daughter of Éomund—for my father was not Eorl; he was Éomund!—was a real person, and not a stone figure? Nothing—nothing would happen. Except that when I lifted the veil from my feelings, perhaps Aragorn might understand… might see…

I fell to my knees and shrieked, _"Aragorn, I beg thee!"_ As I went down, my hood flew back, as if to literally draw back the veil as well as figuratively, in the sudden wind that flew up in reply to my scream. Aragon turned again, and his eyes were full of pity for me. I looked up at him defiantly, allowing the flowing tears to fall down my face and onto my hands, cloak, and gown.

He knelt down in front of me to meet my eyes, and he started to say something, but I didn't let him—my pride was shattered anyway—nothing mattered anymore. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him to me.

And then I kissed him with all the passion I contained… all the compressed ardour that I had concealed so long was flying out of me so quickly I couldn't conceal it. I felt as if, for once, I was alive—I felt that I would never live again. In that moment when our lips met—for it must have only been a moment, though it felt like a year—a lifetime—I felt him weeping for me—his tears mingled with mine as I held him, felt him, touched him—

Then he pushed me away, almost roughly—desperately. His eyes were no longer pitying—there was a look of confusion… restraint… and then resignation. "Nay, milady," he said softly.

I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but he took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I did not look around at the rest of the company, though I knew they were watching us—I only looked at Aragorn. I was shaking—odd shudders that started at the base of my neck and vibrated down my spine. "Aragorn—"

"_No_." His voice was more stern, and he seemed to be talking to himself as well. "Greet your brother for me, milady." He swung into Roheryn's saddle, and urged him forward.

It was too late, but I did it anyway. I lunged forward and caught Roheryn's bridle, buying myself another second to try to change his mind…

"Eowyn, _no_." He was looking at me with such force—such pity—such pain—such beauty—that I was falling apart—everything spun as I tried to hold his gaze—in a moment everything would be annihilated— I dropped my eyes and released the bridle, stepping away. Legolas, still standing near me, put his hand out—to stroke me like a disturbed kitten, I suppose—but I shrugged it off my shoulders and looked wildly about, trying to focus on something—someone. Aragorn was almost gone—I watched him out of sight—then the rest of his company.

I stood frozen, trying to register the rejection, long after the hoofbeats had died away. I hyperventilated, unable to cope—realise—understand…

Then I felt Hilandia and Weynia each taking my hands and leading me into the house.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Hilandia said as they took me into my room. "She's overwrought, poor thing. She will be better in a little while."

"I understand," Weynia whispered to me as I lay down.

They left me then. I wanted to scream at Weynia—_How can you understand this, you whore? When have you ever loved someone—truly loved someone? You can't understand!_

But I couldn't… I couldn't move… I might have been cold, or burning hot, but I was too numb to know it. I didn't feel, see, or think. Only one thought permeated my stupour… _He is gone…! He is gone…! He is gone…!_ The thought beat into my brain like the echoes in Edoras. They didn't care that I was dying of love for him, or that he was going to die, and that I would never see him again… No, mercilessly they continued to scream…

_He is gone…! He is gone…! He is gone…!_


	16. A Song About Nothing: Arwen

**Chapter VIII: A Song About Nothing**

**18 Narwain, 3019**

Long ago I had begun a standard for Aragorn—the White Tree and the Seven Stars of Gondor, the emblem of his future kingdom. He would raise it when His Day dawned. I worked feverishly to finish it, for I knew I only had a short time before His Day came. I sent Lambë from the room, locked the doors, and pulled it from behind the curtain. The silver loom I used silently worked, pulling over the black threads and turning loose strands into a solid whole. I sang as I worked; Celebgil and his harp were outside the door, serenading me.

_Lirilla undu yearya caslya  
Tu na lanta  
Mettalya na tul nalya  
Fumelya sin, ar lor an i-mannai-tulien  
Yellonte elye ho arta i-undume  
Manen nyenlya an?  
Manen nirenna antalyan?  
Nirennalya antalyan,  
Lanat na caure  
Varna mi ranquin fume elye  
Elye na mi ranquin, fumela.  
Manen cenye mi i-andune?  
Manen av i-losse earaiwa?  
Arta i-ear, i-Isil ore  
I-ciryan tul an colya i-mar  
Ar ilya na natul silme  
I-calme or i-ear  
Sinde-cir lende mina i-numen__13_

The lullaby was one my mother used to sing to me, and Celebgil, learning my affection for it, sang it for me nearly every day.

One day, while Celebgil was not playing for me—he had taken a short break—there was a knock on the door. Supposing it to be my maidservant, I said, "No, Lambë; I don't wish to be disturbed tonight."

"Milady, it is Celebgil."

I hurried to open the door. "What is it?"

He closed the door behind me, and put a finger to his lips. I locked it; I didn't want Lambë to come in. "I have word of Aragorn."

I nearly fainted. "Is he—"

"He is alive. His company has passed through the wood of Lorien. Gandalf was lost in Moria."

Even in my ecstasy in learning my love was still alive, I felt a pang learning Gandalf was dead.

"But you do not ask if he sent you word, milady!" Celebgil smiled.

"Did he?" I begged.

"He asks if you remember what you said to him, to remember. You were right, he says. There is still hope."

"There is still hope," I repeated.

"And I have a new song for you, milady, written on the spot."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Yes. Just unlock the door so I may fetch my harp, and I will play it."

_Na er estel  
Atta meldon maquet-estel  
Lanat na imberya  
Nan i-ilu  
Mine tiren eresse  
Mine mer melisserya  
Nyer an iste melente na vanwa_

_Na er estel  
An i-atta, nan lanat an ni  
Ni na eresse mi i-marda i-lasselanta  
Ar lamine hlar iquista  
Ar cenin elye tul an rya  
Ar elye nar mi ranquirya  
Ar ni tyulta eresse_

_Na er estel an i-nessa_

_Na la estel an i-yerna__14_

His voice died away, and I was frightened at the expression of yearning on his face. "Celebgil," I said slowly, "What does that song mean?"

His expression changed back to its usual pleasantness. "Nothing, milady. It leaped into my head. Isn't it pretty?"

"Celebgil…" I couldn't ask it. I wanted to, but I couldn't. _Are you in love with me?_ I looked down at my hands. When I looked up, Celebgil was gone. I returned to my weaving.

13. Lullaby featured in _Return of the King _credits, sung by Annie Lennox, translated partially into Elvish.  
_Lay down your weary head  
Night is falling  
Your end has come  
Sleep now, and dream of the before-comers  
They call you from across the abyss  
What do you weep for?  
What tears upon your face for?  
Your tears are drying, nothing to fear  
What can you see in the sunset?  
What do the white seabirds call for?  
Across the sea, the moon is rising.  
The ships come to carry you home.  
And all is becoming silver.  
A light on the sea.  
Grey ships go into the west._

14. Song by Celebgil, written for Arwen and Aragorn  
_There is still hope  
Two lovers ask for assurance  
Nothing stands between them  
But the entire universe  
One watches alone  
One longs for his lover  
And grieves to know their love is lost_

_There is still hope  
For the twain, but none for me  
I am alone in a world of falling leaves  
And none will hear my cry  
And I watch you run to him  
And he takes you in his arms  
And I stand silently by, alone_

_There is still hope for the young  
There is no hope for the old._


	17. Where One Wants Not: Eowyn

**Chapter VIII: Where One Wants Not**

**09 March, 3019**

The day after Aragorn's passing was easier than the first—the gossip of my "demonstration" had passed all through the people by then, and now everyone felt pity for "Éomer's poor sister". The fact that every single person in the camp pitied me stung like a slap to the face, but it also meant they dealt more gently with me, and gave me glances that told me they "felt for me".

Oh, to bash them all! To show them that Éowyn wanted no one's pity—that Éowyn's honour as a shield-maiden had been tainted—that all their pitying gossip and chatter hurt me worse than anything Gríma had ever done!

The day went swiftly—Hilandia and Weynia handled all they could without me, bothering me as little as possible. I spent time weeping… the experience was such a novelty to me that I had tears for a million cries before my tears finally ebbed that evening. I could not get my pride back—the icy-cold beauty I had held and cherished—what a shield-maiden must have. I had been a woman of the Riddermark—one Eorl might have been proud to call his daughter. Now I was only a sad little girl—stripped of pride, love, and purpose. I felt childish and demeaned, but I didn't know how to end the despair I had fallen into… unless by death.

_Death… _after the day before, it was so welcome. Aragorn and I would both be dead. I considered outright suicide—_but no, better in honour. When Théoden comes, I will follow him to war._

_And this time, I will not be refused._

Hilandia came in and broke my morbid musing. "Your uncle is coming, Lady. Will you ride out and meet him?"

I didn't really have a choice. I washed my face and changed to Rider garb, complete with my treasured sword. I mounted Windfola. He was both fast and hardy, though apparently that mattered little; the longest ride he had ever taken was to lead the weary and footsore people on foot to Dunharrow. As I cantered away from the camp, I caught sight of my uncle's white hair, glistening in the sun. I urged Windfola forward, and we raced to meet them in a vigorous gallop. "Hail, Lord of the Mark!" I cried once I was in earshot. "My heart is glad at your returning!"

He smiled at me. "And you, Éowyn," he said. Éomer rode up beside me and we exchanged embraces. "Is all well with you?"

_No. How could it be?_ "All is well," I said. Did my voice still hold a trace of tears in it? I swallowed. "All is well," I repeated, trying to smile. "It was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes. There were hard words"—I thought of the irate farmer that had protested leaving his fields—"For it is long since war drove us across the green fields; but there have been no evil deeds." _How long until they find out what happened the day before yesterday? _"All is now ordered, as you see. And your lodgings is prepared for you; for I have had full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming."

Éomer looked at me in a strange way, almost as if he wanted to weep, too, and was on the verge. "So Aragorn has come then," he said dully. "Is he still here, Éowyn?"

A tear fell unbidden down my cheek; Éomer reached over and wiped it away before Théoden saw. "No," I whispered, looking East. "He is gone." _He is gone…! He is gone…! He is gone…! _

"Whither did he go, sister?" Éomer asked. _Don't you know?_

"I—I do not know," I lied. "He came at night, and rode away yester-morn, ere the Sun had climbed over the mountain-tops…. He is gone." _He is gone…! He is gone…! He is gone…! _

"You are grieved, daughter," Théoden said. _Has he ever called me _daughter_ before?_ "What has happened? Tell me, did he speak of that road?" He pointed in the direction that Aragorn had left. "Of the Paths of the Dead?"

Another tear. "Yes, milord," he replied. "And he has passed into the shadow from which none have returned. I—I could not dissuade him. He is gone." _He is gone…! He is gone…! He is gone…! _

"Then all our paths are sundered, Éowyn," Éomer said. "He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles."

_Hope_. A stab went to my heart as I remembered the flag on the porch of Edoras. If Aragorn was dead, not only was our hope was dwindling—_my_ hope was gone.

We rode in silence to Dunharrow. I had made everything as rich as I could… hoping to bring cheer to their hearts. Bright colours and palatable foods could not change anything, I now saw, and it had been foolish of me to hope. But it was lovely, and the King appreciated the effort.

We sat in a curtained space—the nearest thing to a pavilion I could manage. I now met Meriadoc, the Hobbit that Aragorn had asked me to care for. I did not say much during dinner… Éomer and Théoden did all the talking. My thoughts were on how long it would take them to learn of what I had done in my attempt to dissuade Aragorn. I had to leave here—in war, I could die in honour. Suicide would be shameful. I would arrange to go to Gondor with the rest of the Mark. And none would dissuade me this time.

My swimming thoughts were interrupted when Théoden turned to Meriadoc, who had been standing behind him, serving him. "Come, Master Meriadoc, you shall not stand. You shall sit beside me as long as I remain in my own lands, and lighten my heart with tales."

Hilandia set a place for the little Hobbit, and he sat, but we did not ask for tales. It was obvious something was on his mind, and at last he said, "Twice now, milord, I have heard of the Paths of the Dead. What are they? And where has Strider—I mean the Lord Aragorn—where has he gone?"

A half-strangled cry flew from my throat. I clapped both hands over my mouth to prevent another. Finally, Éomer spoke. "We do not know, and our hearts are heavy. But as for the paths of the dead, you have yourself walked on their first steps." Meriadoc blanched. "Nay—I speak no words of ill omens! The road that we have climbed is the approach to the Door, yonder in the Dimholt. But what lies beyond, no man knows."

"No man knows," Théoden repeated, "but ancient legend, now seldom spoken, has somewhat to report. If these old tales speak true that have come down from father to son in the House of Eorl, then the door under Dwimorberg leads to a secret way that goes beneath the mountain to some forgotten end. But none have ever ventured to learn its secrets, since Baldor son of Brego passed the Door and was never seen among men again. A rash vow he spoke, as he drained the horn at the feast which Brego made to hallow the newly built Meduseld, and he never came to the high seat of which he would have been heir.

"Folk say that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls; but at whiles they may themselves be seen passing out of the door like shadows and down the stony road. Then the people of Harrowdale shut their doors and shroud their windows and are afraid. But the Dead seldom come forth and only at times of great unquiet and coming death."

I thought of the rumour that Weynia had told me of a few days ago. "Yet it is said in Harrowdale," I said in a low voice people reserve for ghost stories. Any louder and tears would come. "It is said that in the moonless nights only a little while ago, a great host in strange array passed by. Whence they came, none knew, but they went up the stony road and vanished into the hills, as if to keep a tryst."

Meriadoc looked at me. I bit my lip and looked down: I was grieving for Aragorn; he could see it; I did not want the pity in his eyes. "Then why has Aragorn gone that way?" he asked me. "Don't you know anything that would explain it?"

I shook my head without looked away from my white, cold hands. Éomer answered, seeing I could not. "Unless he has spoken words to you as his friend that we have not heard, none now in the land of the living can tell his purpose."

"Greatly changed he seemed to me since I first saw him in the halls of Meduseld." My cheeks flushed, remembering that first conversation. "He seemed grimmer… older. Fey, I thought him, and like one whom the Dead call."

"Maybe he _was_ called," Théoden said, and the words felt like a hand around my neck, choking me. "And my heart tells me I will not see him again. Yet he is a man of high destiny."

_High destiny! What destiny calls men like Théodred and Aragorn to the grave, when they have so much?_

He turned to me, perhaps sensing my bitter reflections. "And take comfort in this, daughter, since comfort you seem to need in your grief for him. It is said that when the Eorlingas came out of the north and passed at length up the Snowbourn, seeking strong places of refuge in time of need, Brego and his son Baldor climbed the Stair of the Hold and so came before the Door. On the threshold sat an old man, aged beyond guess of years; tall and kingly he had once been, but now he was as withered as an old stone. Indeed, for stone they took him, for he moved not, and he said no word until they sought to pass by him and enter. And then a voice came out of him and to their amazement it spoke in the Western tongue: 'The way is shut.'

"Then they halted and looked at him and saw that he lived still; but he did not look at them. 'The way is shut,' his voice said again. 'It was made by those who are dead, and the Dead keep it. Until the time comes, the way is shut.'

"'And when will that time come?' said Baldor. But no answer did he get, for the man died in that hour and fell upon his face; and no other tidings of the ancient dwellers in the mountains have our folk ever learned. Yet maybe the time foretold is at last come, and Aragorn may pass."

His words did not comfort me, though I knew they were said out of love and for that purpose. Éomer voiced my thoughts when he said: "But how shall a man discover whether that time be come or not, uncle? And that way I would not go though all the hosts of Mordor stood before, and I were alone and had no other refuge. Alas, that a mood so fey should fall on a man so great-hearted in this hour of need! Are there not evil things enough abroad without seeking them under the earth? War is at hand!"

I heard the voice of men outside the tent, and Éomer stopped talking. _"Théoden! King Théoden of Rohan!"_

The Captain of the Guard drew aside the curtain. "A man is here, milord," he said to Théoden. "He is an errand-rider of Gondor, and he wishes to speak to you."

Théoden nodded. "Let him come!"

A rather tall man entered, though I doubted he was taller than Théodred or myself, and even if so, definitely not taller than Aragorn. Meriadoc made a strangled noise, and I looked towards him anxiously, but he seemed to be all right. The man was dressed as a rider with a forest cloak over a coat of mail; I noticed an eight-pointed Silver Star on the front of his helm. He held an arrow, black-feathered, wrought of steel. But what caught my eye was the tip of the arrow—it was painted red.

The man sank on one knee and proffered it to Théoden. "Hail, Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor! Hirgon I am, messenger of Denethor, who brings you this token of war. Gondor is in great need. Often the Rohirrim have aided us, but now the Lord Denethor asks for all your strength and all your speed, lest Gondor fall at last."

Théoden accepted the arrow and examined it. "The Red Arrow!" he murmured, and his hands trembled. "The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years. Has it indeed come to that? And what does the Lord Denethor reckon that all my strength and speed may be?"

Hirgon shook his head. "That is best known to you," he said. "But ere long it may come to pass that Minas Tirith is surrounded, and unless you have the strength to break a siege of many powers, the Lord Denethor bids me to say that he judges that the strong arms of Rohan would be better within his walls that without."

I looked at Éomer. He moved closer to me so I could whisper, "I want to go." Théoden and Hirgon continued in conversation, but neither of us were listening anymore.

"You can't, Éowyn."

I was a little angry, but still cool. I would go, regardless of what he said. "Why not?"

His excuse was everything Aragorn's had been. I could have recited along with him. "You are in charge here—who would lead the people?"

"Find someone else!" I hissed. "Another woman—Hilandia!"

Éomer chuckled. "Sister, you are indeed desperate when you offer your serving-woman as a substitute!"

Disliking the mockery, I protested. "Elfhelm, perhaps! Weonsil!"

"Weonsil is dead, Éowyn."

Something struck my heart—something cold and painful. "What?" I said dumbly. "D—do Weynia and Hilandia know?"

"No. I am going to tell them tonight."

_No doubt Weynia will have need of your comfort. _"He died nobly, then?"

"Defending the Keep."

"They will find peace in that."

"Of course."

I was silent a moment, grieving for the dead. Then I returned to the previous topic. "I want to go with you, though!"

"You can't, Éowyn."

"Say yes!" I said, knowing I was losing.

"No. What did our mother tell you as she lay dying, sister?"

"Many things," I said flippantly. I didn't like remembering.

"She told you to obey me," Éomer said through clenched teeth. "Now do so: _Stop arguing_."

I scowled at him and would have protested, but Théoden's conversation was at an end, and he was addressing all of us now. "Go now each to your rest. Sleep well." I knew his words were not for me. _I _was not going to Gondor (he thought) and I would not require rest.

_How wrong you are, uncle._

He turned to Meriadoc. "And you, Master Hobbit, I need no more tonight. But be ready to call as soon as the Sun rises."

"I will be ready," he said, "Even if you bid me to ride on the Paths of the Dead with you."

I could not take anymore. I burst out of the tent and into the moonlight. I stood a long time, staring at the stars, thinking of Aragorn, who surely had met his terrible fate now. Behind me, a few moments later, Meriadoc emerged from the tent and headed for his own lodgings. As he walked, I heard a muttered, "I _won't _be left behind! I won't, I won't, _I won't_!"

I smiled bitterly. _Yes, we understand one another, Meriadoc. I will take you with me._

The next morning, when Hilandia woke me, I thought it must be three in the morning, so dark was it, and so little time did I feel had passed since I fell asleep. But everyone was up, and the watchman who had been up all night said it was about the time of Sunrise. Another messenger had come during the night. As I entered the King's tent, he was saying, "It comes from Mordor, milord. It began last night at sunset. From the hills in the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind, eating the stars. Now the great cloud hangs over all the land between here and the Mountains of Shadow, and it is deepening. War has already begun."

Théoden looked so old and frail in the torchlight—like the Gríma-bewitched dotard that had once sat in the Hall at Meduseld. He was so sad… "So we come to it in the end," he said. "The great battle of our time, in which many great things will pass away." A number of the men seemed to be weeping. "But at least there is no longer a need for hiding. We will ride on the open road with all our men and all our speed. The muster shall begin at once, and not wait for those who tarry. Have you good store in Minas Tirith? For if we ride now in all haste, we must ride light, with but meal and water to last us into battle."

Hirgon nodded. "We have a very great store long prepared. Ride now as swift and light as you may!"

"Then call the heralds, Éomer!" Théoden cried. "Let the Riders be marshalled!"

Éomer left, and in seconds we heard trumpets, clear and brave and strong, ringing out into the night. Tears came into my eyes, and I wondered who could hear such a trumpet and not want to follow it over the hills… to Gondor… even unto the depths of Mordor's blackest cave!

Meriadoc walked past me, obviously in despair. "What is the matter, Master Meriadoc?" I asked him, setting a hand on his shoulder, scarcely higher than my waist.

"I offered the King my sword; he accepted my service; and now he tells me to remain with you, where I will be safe." Tears came to his eyes. "I have no desire for safety! I wish to go to battle, where all my friends have gone!"

"Do not worry about that," I said. "Come with me now, Meriadoc, and I will show you the gear I have prepared for you." He followed me to the armourer's tent. "This request did Aragorn make to me: that you should be armed for battle. I have granted it, as I could. For my heart tells me you will need such gear ere the end—we all will."

I showed him a helm and shield that would fit him. The shield had the white horse on a green field that was on all our flags and armour. "No mail have we to fit you," I apologised, "nor any time for the forging of such a hauberk; but here is a stout jerkin of leather, a belt, and a knife. A sword you have." He smiled; then he touched it proudly where it hung at his side. "Take all these things and bear them to good fortune! Farewell now, Master Meriadoc." Then I added in a low time: "Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I."

I left him and ran inside to talk with the captain. I found him draining a goblet of wine. "Elfhelm!"

He stood up and bowed. "Milady."

"I am coming with you to battle."

His eyes widened. "Lady—"

"Do not tell the King or my brother that I ride in the company," I ordered. "I have my own horse and armour; you need not bother about me. Just don't betray me to my kin."

"Of course not, milady," he said.

I ran to my tent and called Weynia. I had filled her in on what I was going to do; she helped me bind my breasts, comb my hair back into as small a bun as we could manage, and add a little grime to my face so it was not so pale. Then I dressed in the armour of a Rider, and fetched Windfola. To all who asked, I said I was Dernhelm, a youth of twenty from Harrowdale. But very few cared.

We all rode to Edoras, including Meriadoc, and ate noon-meal in the darkness. Then, having gathered such men as remained at the Golden Hall, we prepared to set off on the long journey to Gondor. Meriadoc pleaded once more to go with the King, but again he said no. I waited for Meriadoc to fall on his knees and beg, but he didn't. He had more pride than I.

Meriadoc went away to weep, and I followed. I found him in a small deserted room. His back was to me, and the room was only lit dimly by the torch he held. "_Where one wants not, a way opens,_ so we say," I said quietly in the gloom. "And so I have found myself. You wish to go whither the Lord of the Mark goes, I see it in your face."

He had jumped when I had first spoken, but now he relaxed. "I do, sir."

"Then you shall go with me," I said. "I will bear you before me until we are far afield, and this darkness is yet darker. Such good will should not be denied. Say no more to any man, but come!"

He bowed. "Thank-you indeed! Thank-you, sir, though I do not know your name."

"Do you not?" I smiled. "Then call me Dernhelm."

As we left Edoras, I was not nervous or apprehensive concerning my disguise. Some in the company had noticed that one of the Riders resembled in voice and figure the Lady of the Mark, and had by their glances and subtle hints told me they would not betray my secret. My helm and cloak shielded most of my face, and I had lowered my voice an octave.

Others had noticed that the youth Dernhelm had taken the King's esquire with him. Elfhelm had seen to it that any mentions people made of me or my comrade went no farther; Théoden would hear nothing of our presence.

Therefore, the Hobbit's head, leaning into my breast, did not make me feel self-conscious; neither did the extra pair of feet dangling against Windfola's russet sides.

It grew darker as we rode; at first, every three-hundredth man was issued a torch to carry as he rode, then every two-hundredth, and finally every hundredth. I felt I was trapped in oblivion; nothing existed at all except the clip-clop of Windfola's hooves, the warmth on my chest that was Meriadoc's curly pate, and myself. As the torch-bearers increased, they dispelled my terror of the night as the coming of Aragorn had dispelled my terror of life.

A rumour passed down the line that lone men had come to us, bearing tales of orcs that could see in the dark… _It doesn't matter anymore_, I thought wearily. _Nothing matters anymore_.

Éomer yelled loudly, as men murmured about going home: "Ride on! Ride on! Too late now to turn aside! The fens of the Entwash must guard our flank! Haste now we need most! Ride on!"

And so we left the land of Rohan—for the first time in my life, for I had never crossed the borders of the Horse-Land. I never expected to return to it; indeed, I never wanted to. I would die in battle and honour, and therefore have peace….


	18. The Woman With The Golden Hair: Arwen

**Chapter IX: The Woman With Golden Hair**

**07 Gwaeron (March), 3019**

I had finished my standard at last. Elladan and Elrohir were to lead the entire force of Dunedain to Rohan to meet Aragorn, and I asked Halbarad, second-in-command, to deliver the standard to him.

"Yes, milady," he said.

"And tell him this," I said before he could slip away, "The days now are short. Either our hope cometh or all hopes end. Therefore I send thee what I have made for you. Farewell, Elfstone!"

He took it from my hands, and a quick glance told him what it was. "I will give it to him, and I will tell him."

Then they left—I kissed my brothers and sent them off with goodwill. I could have loaded them down with a hundred things to tell Aragorn, but I forced myself to keep it simple—sending my love was sufficient. Aragorn would know what I wanted to say.

A few nights later, I lay in bed, thinking of Aragorn. As the Sun rose the next morning, I finally dropped into an uneasy sleep.

_A grassy field. A young woman and man staring at each other over the back of a bay horse. By the horse I knew this must be Rohan. The man prepared to mount. _

"_I beg thee!" she screamed, holding onto the bridle of the horse. The man (who was tall with golden hair) ignored her. "Éomund!" _

_I understood the situation—_he was leaving for battle, certain death, and she wanted to come, as well.

_On the porch of a nearby house, two children watched in semi-horror and bewilderment as the man shoved her to the ground. She stayed there, weeping, as the man succeeded in mounting and rode away, followed by a company of men I hadn't noticed before. The children—a youth of perhaps thirteen; a girl of eight or nine. The girl attracted my attention—she had the blond hair of her mother, but the brown eyes of the man that had rode away. A red mark on her face—brought on by emotion, I suppose—was growing more vivid. _

"_I beg thee!" Another woman, not unlike the girl on the porch, fell to her knees in a similar grassy field, this one on the outside of a small encampment in the mountains. I recognised the tent designs as Rohirric, as well. Standing before her was Aragorn, holding the bridle of Roheryn, the horse I had given him once. There were tears in his eyes. _

_He knelt to lift her up, so gently, so carefully. But she grabbed him around the neck and kissed him. It hurt to watch as she gave him love he could not return. For a moment, stunned, Aragorn let her hold him. _

Estel is mine, child. You cannot have him.

_Then he pushed her away, gently. Aragorn was always so gentle…. He and she were both weeping—hers love, his pity. She watched him ride away; her eyes followed every horse as the company rode off. Her hands clenched and unclenched; her jaw worked, but no sound came out. _

Is there no one for you, child?


	19. A Daughter Of Eorl: Eowyn

**Chapter IX: A Daughter Of Eorl**

**15 March, 3019**

To elaborate on the details of our two-day travel to Gondor would be tedious to myself and to the reader, as they faded into one endless monotony. We ate in a hurry, slept little, and were always on guard. We had no idea when the darkness would fade; if roaming orcs (the rumours passed down the line from time to time) would attack us; if any of us would make it to Gondor alive.

And I didn't care. I would take death in whatever form the gods deemed it fit to give it; I would die in equal honour fighting in a surprise-attack or in defence of the White City. I would never see Edoras again—that was perhaps my only regret. I wished I could have stood on the walls of my beautiful House and look out over the breath-taking expanse that was _my_ country.

No—I would die outside Rohan, in the land of Gondor.

We reached Gondor near sunrise. The battle was in our favour: the Gondorians were defending the City from the orcs; we were at their back. Suddenly the orcs ceased to be the ones encircling the City: now they were trapped on either side.

We plunged into the battle. I remember the first orc that met my blade—my first kill, save for scarecrows and other dummies Théodred had constructed for me. I remember the turn my stomach took as my blade went through him, slicing him open. I remember the stricken look on his face as he sank down.

But it was as in a dream—the trance Éomer talked of so often—when all life slows, and you have time to plan six moves ahead before the first one is completed—took over. I was death in bodily form. Death was my uncle's battle cry—Death was my goal. Unafraid of what the consequences might be, I plunged into the thickest of the fighting. And my confidence was their ruin. Anger drove me forward.

I hardly saw the faces before I split them open, hacking, slicing, cutting. Blood coated my sword and my horse's side—but it was neither Windfola's blood nor mine. Orcs lay dead around me.

When they all had fled from me, I turned to look around. The field was littered with corpses. The Rohirrim was spread out, but collectively rejoicing. The battle was nearly done… Victory was near…The glow from the approaching Sun lit the mountaintops in the East… Grey light flooded the Pellenor Fields….

When doom struck.

The flag-bearer of the orcs was yet alive, and as a final challenge he rushed Théoden. Théoden killed him easily—the flag-bearer had been hasty, weary, and unthinking.

But then we heard a flapping of wings—and the shadow fell over us. We looked up—a black-cloaked figure, larger and taller than any mortal man, was swooping down from the sky on his steed—seemingly a bird, yet no feathers covered his body, not even on his huge, hideous wings, larger than any eagle's.

His master was yet more fearsome. The hood of his cloak was thrown back, and yet there was no head. A crown floated on the empty air above it, as if born by an invisible head: black steel, as if fire had blackened it. The figure's only weapon was a mace, the largest I had ever seen.

It descended on us like a cloud, and all beasts fled from it, either throwing their masters and running; or carrying them along in their terror. Windfola threw Meriadoc and I, and fled. Meriadoc's head hit a rock, and I assumed he was either dead or stunned. _If dead, than lucky,_ I thought. _But he has a friend, and will be mourned…_

Snowmane, Théoden's faithful horse of many years, threw him, but tripped on a stone and fell upon him, crushing his poor master. I watched through bleary eyes as the revolting creature fell upon the horse, digging its horribel talons into Snowmane's white sides. Blood spurted where the flesh was pierced, and the Black Captain laughed—an invisible laugh from an invisible face—raising his mace to kill Théoden.

I did not give myself time to think whether I was ready, or whether my heart was strong enough to face him. Sometimes instinct commands, and there can be no hesitation. I leaped to my feet. His eyes—they could be distinguished, between the cowl of the cloak and the steel crown, as red lights—caught my movement, and he turned in my direction.

"Begone, fowl dwimmerlaik, Lord of Carrion!" I cried loudly. "Leave the dead in peace!" For Théoden would die—surely Snowmane had cracked his ribs with his fall. But I would not let such a being as this give the dying blow—not while of of Eorl's kin lived!

A voice came in reply—breathy, harsh, and terrible. It was the wind, roaring through trees—it was the snarl of the river, dragging me deep… I was drowning in the voice. I felt his breath on my face: cold like the winter's wind—like the wind that had blown the day my father left for what was to be his bane—like the day they had brought him back, dead. "Come not between the Nazgul and his prey!" it answered me. "Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye!"

My hand flew to my sword-hilt, and I stepped between the thing and Théoden. "Do what you will, but I will hinder it, if I may."

He laughed. Somehow it hurt to hear—little pinpricks inside my lungs stabbed me when he laughed. "Hinder _me_? Thou fool! No living man may hinder _me_!"

Living man? Didn't he see? Couldn't he see? The intense gaze emanating from nowhere felt as though it knew my soul—and yet he called me a man?

Then it was I who was laughing. I drew my sword and threw back my hood, allowing my hair to swirl around me.

"But no living man am I! You look upon a woman; Éowyn am I, Éomund and Théodwyn's daughter, the Daughter of Rohan, a Shield-Maiden of Eorl. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, _I will smite you if you touch him!_" My voice rose as I spoke, and at the last I was shrieking in grim determination. No one would take my king's life when I had just gained him. He would not die while I yet lived!

"_I promise you, Éowyn, someday you will get your chance…" _My chance had come. For Théodred. For Mother, who missed hers. "_We all get our chance at some point or another_…"

There was silence. I stared up at him. He seemed, if it were possible of one so mighty, unnerved by my declaration. We stood still, facing each other.

"_RAWG!"_ the beast screamed at me. I stepped back, startled by the outburst, for the thing had been silent for some time. The Black Captain took advantage of my surprise, mounted into the air above me, and swooped down.

Théoden had taught me to think and act quickly, and I had my plan prepared before he had achieved desired height. The claws scratched my shoulder as it clawed me. Blood flowed. The moment the long neck was within reach, I clove it asunder, and his head dropped at my feet.

The wings flapped a second longer before ceasing their movement. I jumped backwards as the huge body fell to ruin.

The wings still twitched as I gaped at the thing before me.

And then the Sun rose all at once, showered the field with rosy light. I smiled. "_But we have to prove ourselves_…"

The Sun caught my hair, and I breathed deep of the crisp morning breeze.

But the Black Captain was yet alive. He rose from the wreck, towering above me.

His mace hit my shield with such force that the shield shattered, shards raining on my face and arms. A cold pain took my left arm—I heard something _snap!_ as it went limp. Bright lights were exploding everywhere—I couldn't see for them. My sword-hand reached out to brush them away—it went through them, unable to grasp what wasn't there. They were nothing but hallucinations from the pain.

No scream came as I fell on my knees, only a desperate, pleading word. "Mother…" I whispered.

He raised his mace to kill me. Death was staring me in the face. He paused, relishing my pain, as I had no doubt he had relished the pain of many others before me, and, should no one stop him, would relish many more. I was too weary to think of anything to do… I was falling asleep… my vision dimmed…

My stomach woke me as it began to slowly force my meagre breakfast back up my throat. I was so tired, and frightened—yes, I was frightened of the death I had come to find. Now it was here, waiting for me, and I was afraid.

"Mother…" I repeated. _Save me, Mother._

The mace came down to crush my upturned-face—when he fell forward, and his mace drove into the dirt inches from me. I looked around—Meriadoc had driven his sword into the Captain's leg.

"Éowyn! Éowyn!" Fainting, I realised he had found me out.

I rose to my feet, lifted the sword—when did it become so terribly, terribly heavy?—and drove it to the hilt into his body. "Mother!" I screamed—no other battle-cry for the Daughter of Théodwyn. I fell forward, nearly-swooning. Shadows whirled around me.

My last understanding before the darkness enveloped me was that there was no body beneath me—only a crown and an empty cloak.

Then there was blackness. And I had what I had come for: death.


	20. The House of Ea: Arwen

**Chapter X: The House of Ëa**

**09 March, 3019**

I did not eat the two days after my dream. Worry and confusion forbade it. I allowed none to see me, though Adar tried to come and talk to me. I did not want to hear his pleas for repentance from the reckless path I had taken. Had he never loved? Did he love me anymore?

I spent the forty-eight hours sitting up in my bed with my cloak wrapped around me, senseless to Lambë's goings and comings. I was conscious that food was laid on the table, and later was taken away, but I made no movement. Buried deep in my thoughts where none could reach me, I pondered my dream.

The horses signified the land of Rohan, which went well with the wilderness fields that I had seen. The first woman had called the man Éomund, who was the husband of the King's sister, Theodwyn. Aragorn had served the former kind, Thengel, and had had occasion to meet with her. He called her a fair woman, blond hair and grey eyes, which fit the description of the first woman, as well as the second.

The second was her daughter, I surmised. The union of Theodwyn's lineage and Éomund's strength had produced a woman wrought of steel—that much I could tell from what I had seen. That was not the only thing that had contributed to her hardness—there was something I could not see—something few could see. I wondered if Aragorn had seen. He saw so much I never even noticed…

_Aragorn slouched against a tree, looking at a tiny mallorn bloom he had plucked from an overhanging branch. "Look at it, Undomiel," he said. "Look how the petals entwine where they join the stem."_

_I took it from his hand and examined it. "It's a beautiful flower," I said, "brought over from Valinor when the First-Born left." _

"_You can see Valinor in its make," he said. "Truly, Ëa breathes in this plant." He looked at me mischievously. "They say that the pillars in His halls are made of blooming mallorn trees." He lay back into a niche of the tree that fit him exactly. _

"_What then is the roof?" I sat next to him, leaning against him. _

"_The House of Ëa needs no roof! He has the stars!"_

"_Tell me more," I said, drinking in the beautiful picture he was painting for me._

"_The floor is made of earth—growing, damp earth. But you need not fear for your beautiful dresses when you walk down the halls—it is carpeted with thick moss, an inch thick at its thinnest."_

_I laid my head on his shoulder, and his arm wrapped around my waist. "Why should I fear for my dresses?" I asked. "I am here."_

"_But we will go to Ëa someday. I, then you. Together, we will wander his earthen halls, and we will smell the richness of the soil. And I will walk behind you, that I may place my foot where yours trod—earth twice-hallowed: once by its creator, and once by your touch."_

"_How will I touch it with shoes?" I wondered. _

"_You will have no need of shoes!" he exclaimed. "Upon death, Nire takes your shoes and returns them to Middle-Earth." I reached down and touched the silver slippers I was wearing. "Others will have better need of them. But in Ëa's halls, where there is no moss, there is a thick layer of grasses—not the kind that cut your feet—the kind that your feet sink in, soft as the softest bed. And where there is no grass, the mallorns drop their leaves to save your feet from chance stones."_

"_It sounds beautiful," I said. _

"_It will be even more beautiful in real life," he said. "I can see it."_


	21. The Houses Of Healing: Eowyn

**Chapter X: The Houses Of Healing**

**15 March, 3019**

_I was floating in a mist. All around me were shapes… I saw Meriadoc, suddenly, looking at me. There was a Gondorian man, too. And then another Hobbit like Meriadoc, but not the same. Kin, perhaps. _

_Roads, filled with the shapes of people, went every which way. I heard screams--someone was wailing--it was a woman. Another--a man--crying for mercy. They were being hurt. _

Who is hurting you?

_Heat washed over me like a wind--I was burning. "Help!" I screamed. "Help!" As if in answer, a cold, frigid and icy, came, like an frozen wave. I was going to freeze to death. "Stop! Stop hurting me!"_

Faramir!_ A voice--I know that voice--echoed through the mists. _Faramir!

_I strained to recognise the speaker. The Gondorian I had seen responded, following the voice--he was rising up. Ghostlike hands reached after him, clawing the air in their anguish. _

Is this death?

_There were wraithlike creatures all around me. A woman's voice, taunting and nasty, called out-- "Look! It is Éowyn, daughter of Eorl: murderer of Théodred, son of Théoden!"_

"_I didn't mean to!" I called in reply, screaming. "I didn't know!"_

"_You lied to him, bitch!"_

"_I had to! What else could I have done?"_

_They followed me as I fled down paths. They called me Gríma's whore--my worst nightmare come true. Indeed, they seemed to know my darkest pains and worries, for they whispered to me that none were left alive--Éomer fell soon after I did. The king was dead. Aragorn was dead. And I was dead._

Éowyn! Éomund's daughter, awake!

_Who is that? Where is he?_

Your Enemy has passed away!

Where are you? _The heat and cold passed--I was only floating. _

Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan! Awake! The shadow is gone, and all darkness is washed clean!

_I was trying to follow, but they were pulling me back. _Where are you?

Call her_, the voice said. _

Éowyn! _It was another--_I know your voice!

"Éomer!" I opened my eyes. Éomer was leaning over me. Strands of his blond hair brushed my forehead and teardrops fell from his eyes to my cheeks. "Éomer! What joy is this? They told me you were dead! How long have I been dreaming?"

I looked around me. I was inside a clean, white room--there was a Hobbit, though not Meriadoc, and Gandalf, and Éomer, as I have said, all gathered around my bed. My forehead was wet, and a fragrance I could not place was in the air; I did not think I had ever smelled anything like it before, and I know now I had not.

Then I saw Aragorn, standing in the doorway watching me. A jolt of joy and surprise shot through me--he was alive!--followed by a stab of shame and despair. My presentation on the steps of Dunharrow came back to me vividly. In his grey and solemn eyes I saw all we had ever shared… and all we could never share.

The moment lasted forever. He was so gentle--was he ever anything else to me? So gentle… and so far away from anything I could ever know.

And then he turned and walked out the door. I looked after him, silent, until Éomer answered my question. "Not long, my sister. But think no more on it!"

But I had to think on it--the dreams were so fresh in my mind--the heat and the cold… I was so tired. I tried to sit up, but could not manage it. "I am strangely weary," I said, lying back. "I must rest a little. I remembered Théoden--how hazy and long ago it seemed! "Tell me, Éomer, what of the Lord of the Mark? Alas! Do not tell me that was a dream, for I know that it was not. He is dead, as he foresaw."

Éomer's eyes filled once more with tears. "He is dead, but he bade me bid farewell to Éowyn, dearer than daughter. He lies now in honour in the Citadel."

Tears came to my eyes, also. "That is grievous," I said, then I tried to smile. "And yet, it is good beyond all that I dared hope in the dark days; when Gríma haunted my footsteps and it seemed that the House of Eorl was sunk in less honour than any shepherd's cot!

"And what of the King's Esquire the Halfling?" I asked, suddenly remembering Meriadoc's role in the whole thing. "Éomer, you shall make him a knight of the Riddermark, for he is valiant!"

Gandalf smiled, and spoke for the first time. "He lies nearby in this House, milady, and I shall go to him presently. Éomer may stay here for a while; indeed, it will be hard to pry him from your side, as we have been unable to do since we first discovered you living among the dead. But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you restored to health and to hope, so valiant a lady."

_You rescued my lord from dotage. You caused him to see that I am more than _just a woman_. You saved me from worse than death. You did all this, and yet you call me valiant?_ "To health?" I asked aloud. "It may be so, milord. At least while there is a saddle of some fallen rider that I can fill. But to hope? I do not know."

Gandalf and the Halfling left us then, taking the door Aragorn had done through. Éomer turned to me. I did not want to look at him, and so I looked out the window. It did not face east--it faced west.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Take me with you when you leave," I said. "I don't want to be left again."

"Again?" Éomer said. "Éowyn, you haven't been left behind."

"I did not speak of that," I said.

"Éowyn, does this have something to do with what passed between you and Aragorn before we arrived in Dunharrow?"

I stiffened. "What do you know of that?"

"Only that Aragorn had to hurt you in some way--for thus has he hinted to me. Nothing more."

"Then I shall say nothing."

"Tell me. We used to tell each other everything."

_That was a long time ago, and many things have changed since then._ "What has he said?"

"Nothing in particular… _I left her desperate in Dunharrow_… what does he mean?"

I did not turn. "Things…happened. If he has not told you, then I will not."

Silence… uncomfortable silence.

I spoke to break it. "But take me with you."

"No; I thought you dead until Prince Imrahil revealed you to be still breathing. But I cannot lose you: I have lost my cousin and my uncle--"

I cut him off. "I lose them, too, brother--and don't you think my heart aches yet?" I took a deep breath, fighting off the emotion that threatened to overthrow me. "But I came to die! Do you think I wanted to be brought back?"

"The Lord Aragorn has said that you are not to rise for ten days."

"Aragorn is not my lord." _Of anything save my heart._

"He is the King, Éowyn. King of Gondor."

_Don't you think I know?_ "He is not the King of Rohan--he is not _my_ King! I will answer only to the King of Rohan"--my voice died to a whisper--"and he will command none now."

"Know you not that I am the last man of Eorl? _I _am King of Rohan, sister."

I scowled at him, neatly trapped by my own words. "Don't--"

"As you lord, king, and kin, I command you to stay in bed for ten more days, as Aragorn has commanded.

"Éomer!"

He rose, and kissed my forehead. "I must go now, sister. Farewell."

I snapped: "Fare well, Lord of the Mark."

He left me glaring at his back.


	22. For Every New Day : Arwen

**Chapter XI: For Every New Day…**

**25 March, 3019**

I woke from a deep dream with a curious feeling of lightness—as if I were floating on a cloud. So often I had woken from my slumber feeling as if a weight rested on my shoulders; the worries for my beloved, as well as all of Middle-Earth, were heavy on my heart. But I felt strangely released from all that.

I rose from my bed and wrapped a cloak around me as I walked to the window. The morning chill hit my face with vehemence. I inhaled, and felt it freeze my lungs. Something was happening, somewhere. The wind was no longer wailing, as it had been when I fell asleep. It seemed to whisper now, rather than shriek. Tenderly it moved my hair—just barely rippling a strand that fell over my face. It was telling me something—but what? Was it about the Ringbearer? Aragorn? What was happening, out in the darkness? In the East, where mountains rose up as monstrous heads?

"What has happened?" I called aloud. "Where is Estel?"

The wind was sweet—incredibly sweet. I saw a speck in the Eastern sky, black against the rising Sun. It grew steadily larger. It was heading towards us.

"_An Eagle!" _There were cries from the lower hillside, below the House of Elrond: I was not the only one looking East. _"It is an Eagle!"_

I scarcely took the time to sleep from my thin nightdress to a gown, as well as comb my hair into submission, before I ran down the halls to Adar's room. The door was locked, and I pounded on it. Other Elves were there in moments, pressing against me, singing, crying, shouting.

"What has happened?" I shouted above the hubbub, straining to be heard by someone—someone who knew what was going on! "Why does the Eagle come?"

Adar opened the door suddenly, and I fell into his open arms. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and I know not if they were brought by joy or sorrow. But his next words told me. "Victory," he said quietly in my ear.

"What?" I gasped.

"Victory!" he said so that those nearest us could tell. "VICTORY!" he yelled.

Elves everywhere cried in their delight. I was screaming, too.

"And Estel?" I asked when the clamour died down.

He took me in his arms and spun me around, as he used to when I was a child. "Arwen, listen—we _all_ have victory!"

Than indeed was of what the Eagle brought us news. We had felt it from afar. Frodo had dropped the One Ring into the Fire, and we had victory!

Adar set me on my feet again, and I looked around, delirious with joy. Through the dizziness and haze, I saw Celebgil watching me. The pain in his solemned me, and I returned his gaze.

Then he turned and walked away, and the weight in his steps struck me like a blow. I heard him whistling, and the whistle turned to a song.

_There is still hope for the young  
There is no hope for the old._


	23. Faramir: Eowyn

**Chapter XI: Faramir**

**18 March, 3019**

From the moment Éomer passed through the door, I was determined to obey neither he or Aragorn. How dare Aragorn rescue me, when all I had wanted was death, and then say that I must remain in my bed for _ten days_? I couldn't do that—I wouldn't.

The white-haired woman that attended me had apparently been told to obey me, for when I demanded clothing she left and returned with a gown and a length of cloth. She and another woman, Ioreth, helped me to rise and dress. The gown they brought me was a thing such as the Gondorian women wore—a dark underdress covered by a white long, shapeless robe tied at the waist with a silver cord. Examining my reflection in the mirror, the change was startling. The pain and loss of blood had paled my face, but the marked change was something brought by the clothing of another nation. Save for my golden hair, I could have melted into the peoples in the City below, unnoticed.

Using the fabric, Ioreth and her friend (whom I later learned was called Iona) fashioned a sling for my arm—they told me it had been broken by the Black Captain's mace. The fabric was soft and warm, but I disliked the helpless way my arm felt, bound and tied.

When I was ready, I turned to them. "Take me to the Warden of the Houses of Healing," for that was what they called the place I stayed.

The Warden was a little man with a long brown-and-grey beard. His round eyes were bright green—for the Gondorian eyes have a different shape than the Rohirrim. He was sitting in a chair in a nearby room. When he saw me, he jumped up. He came to just about my shoulder, so short was he. I held up my hand to cut short any greeting he might make.

"Sir," I said, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie any longer in sloth."

"Milady," he replied, "You are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. You should not have arisen for seven days yet, or so I was bidden. I beg you to go back."

I comforted myself by envisioning Aragorn and his herb-lore at the bottom of the sea. "I _am_ healed," I insisted, "Healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease. But I shall sicken anew, if there is naught I can do. Are there no tidings of war?"

"There are no tidings," he said, "Save that the lords have ridden to Morgul Vale; and men say the new captain out of the North is their chief. A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield the sword. It is not thus is Gondor now, though once it was so, if old tales be true. But for long years we healers have sought only to patch the rents made by men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the World is full enough of hurts and mischances without swords to multiply them."

I looked down at him. In addition to being a man of many words, I deemed him an ardent pacifist. We were so different—I was seeing, for the first time, the Gondorian peasant view of war. Those of the Mark would never, never regard war as wasteful, but illustrious, bringing honour to the soldiers who fought bravely, and shame to the cowards who did not. I clenched my hands and released them to ease of the urge to shout and argue. Then I said, in a tone so low he had to lean forward to catch my words: "It needs but one foe to breed war, not two, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them. Would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, while the Dark Lord gathers armies? Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter."

I turned and looked out the window. It pointed East, as my window did not. The mountains rose high and black there. I imagined I saw a group of men there—Aragorn and Éomer, and all their lords and armies.

I turned again to the Warden. He had not taken his eyes from my face. What did he think of me? A northern warmonger? Did he regard me with as much disgust as I did him?

"Well?" I said at last. "Is there no deed that I might do? Who commands this City?"

He hesitated. "I do not rightly know," he said. "Such things are not in my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan"—that I knew already—"and the Lord Hurin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

_Faramir_… it sounded familiar, somehow. "Where can I find him?"

"In this House, milady. He was sorely hurt, in the same manner as you, but is now set again on the road to health. But I do not know—"

I didn't let him finish. "Will you not bring me to him?" I asked with an undertone of demand in my voice. "Then you will know."

He bowed and began to walk away. I followed him.

Through many halls the Warden led me—I saw through open doors sick and wounded lying in rooms similar to mine. And then lodging rooms, where I supposed the staff must sleep. And then past a large room filled with fresh and dried herbs.

Finally we went through a door and into the garden. It was shady and cool. The stone paths had moss growing in the cracks; the rest of the yard was lush with grass, circling tall beech- and ash-trees.

In the middle of the garden was a stone bench. There sat a man, faced away from us. He was dressed in a simple blue tunic of the Gondorians; his dark hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves.

"Lord Faramir."

The man turned, and I gasped to see his face. He was the Gondorian I had seen in the land of shadows—the one called before me. He seemed surprised to see me, as well.

"Milord," the Warden began. "Here is Lady Éowyn of Rohan. She rode with the King and was sorely hurt, and dwells in my keeping now. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak with the Steward of the City."

Gazing appreciatively at the man before me, I wondered if Théodred could have defeated him in single combat. I doubted it. I couldn't, I was sure. "Do not misunderstand him, milord," I said. "It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer—for those that want healing. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle goes on."

I saw Faramir give a covert hand signal to the Warden, and immediately the Warden bowed, stammered a hurried something about seeing to his other patients, and left.

Faramir looked very hard at me, and I flushed slightly. "I have seen your face before, milady."

"Yes, Lord Faramir," I replied. "In the Shadowlands. You were called away."

Remembrance dawned on his face. "Ah… yes. The Lord Aragorn called…"

"Yes." My tone was dull and flat. "The Lord Aragorn."

His eyes suddenly seemed to light up with a keen, warm light as I knew he understood—too much. His eyes were milky brown--the same colour as his hair. They felt kinder, almost, than Aragorn's eyes. "What would you have me do, milady?" Faramir asked. "I also am a prisoner of the healers." He took a step towards me. We were so close to each other—inches away. "What would you wish? If it lies in my power, I will see it done."

Suddenly my wish seemed foolish—childish. How can a wounded woman ask to be allowed to fight in battle? "I would have you command this Warden," I said, "And bid him to let me go." He was going to think me a dolt. _Is there no patience in the North_? he would ask.

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," Faramir told me. "Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross him in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."

"But I do not _want _to be healed!" I cried. "I wish to ride to war as brother Éomer, or better as Théoden King, for he died, and has both honour and peace."

Faramir's eyes once again told me that he perceived even more of my history. I did not understand this man that seemed to read my very soul—it was worse and more piercing than Aragorn. "It is too late, milady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength. But death in battle may come to us all yet… willing or unwilling. You had better be prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as your Healer commanded."

_But it wasn't any healer!_ I wanted to scream. _It was Aragorn!_

"You and I—we must endure with patience the long hours of waiting." He looked down at his feet.

A tear came to my eye, and I made no attempt to blink it away. I looked around me, to the high walls surrounding the garden. We were trapped here, I felt. We were in a lovely garden—with no way out. "But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet," I said. "And my window does not look eastward."

Faramir smiled—his smile was filled with pity. Yes, he was very like Aragorn. "Your window does not look eastward?" he repeated. "That can be amended." He followed my gaze to the walls. "In this will I command the Warden, milady. If you will stay in this house and in our care, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the Sun, as you will; and you shall look East, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you shall find me, walking and waiting, and also looking East. It would ease my care if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

I blushed again—I knew what he was saying. "How should I ease your care, milord?" I asked. "And I do not desire the speech of living men." _Only one living man_, I thought.

"Would you have my plain answer?" he asked.

"I would."

"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are many flowers bright and fair, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful."

That told me all I needed to know. He loved me—or at least cared for me. _Théodred!_ Suddenly the dark hair was replaced with long, tousled blond hair—the soft and gentle accent replaced with the guttural tone of the Rohirrim.

"It may be only a few days ere darkness falls upon our World, and when it comes, I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have passed under the same shadow, and the same hand brought us back."

I flinched at the nameless mention of Aragorn. _Didn't you know that I would have thanked you, had you only let me die? Why couldn't you let me die?_ I shook my head at Faramir's words. I could not let this man be with me—he already felt something—if he were to see me more he would turn into Théodred. I didn't want to hurt him—but I would never again bind myself to a man I didn't love. It hurt me too much—and in the end, it would destroy us both. "Alas, not me, milord!" I said, holding both hands out as if to keep him at bay. "Shadow lies upon me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shield-maiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this at least—that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City."

I did him a courtesy, and turned and walked away. Abrupt, but only one thought ran through my mind—I couldn't let him love me—I had to protect him from me.

That evening, I was moved to another room—the window looked East. I was grateful. Also, this room had two windows—the other looked out into the garden. I saw Faramir there, and Meriadoc also. I considered going down to them, but decided against it. For a moment, I stood there, watching them both… but Faramir in particular. He was so gentle—like Aragorn, only differently. Aragorn's gentleness was born out of his life as a Ranger; Faramir's was a part of his nature. He had been raised with everything he desired at his hand, and he was yet as gentle and humble as though he had been born to a life of servitude.

My thoughts were interrupted when the subject looked up to my window and saw me. He smiled, waving a little as if to invite me. I shook my head and moved quickly backward. He had been so kind to me—it would be rude of me not to repay him in some small way. I would be in the garden… tomorrow.

That night, I watched from behind the curtain as Faramir left the garden. Then I put on a cloak and went out under the stars. I walked a long time in the darkness, thinking.


	24. Some Must Face Their Night: Arwen

**Chapter XII: …Some Must Meet Their Night**

**1 May, 3019**

The tidings threw all of Imladris into commotion. Long had we waited for this day, and there was a lot to get ready before we could leave. Lambë and many of the other women worked to make me a wedding gown like no other.

Pure white, set with glistening stones, it seemed to be illuminated by some silver star. The neckline was silver and blue thread entwined to shape an eight-pointed star—a symbol of the union between the First and Second Born; the sleeves were sheer and barely brushed the ground; the train followed me and required five women to keep it off the ground when I tried it on. I loved it. This dress was the Evenstar pendant come to life—the sparkle and shine mirrored it in every way. I could not wear the necklace with it because Aragorn bore it, but I wore a tiny sapphire necklace with it, which brought out the blue in the dress.

When it was finally complete, we finally left Imladris, much to my satisfaction. I would eagerly have ridden day and night to get to Aragorn the sooner, but several in our party were mortal, including our horses, and this made it impossible. And even though the Lands of Middle-Earth had been conquered, pockets of the Enemy's force still lay here and there, and riding ahead by myself would surely result in a fate like my mother's had been. Also, we were not travelling directly to Minas Tirith, but passing by Lothlorien, where Galadriel and Celeborn would join our party after a short rest.

My travelling dresses were less resplendent than the wedding gown, but still lovely. All similar in style, they were varying shades of dappled greys and greens with silver leaves embroidered around the neckline and sleeves. They were made of hardy material, that I could ride as hard as I wanted; yet soft enough that there was no discomfort, even if you wore them all day.

Adar and I rode, but most in our company walked. Celebgil—who had been requested to sing at our celebration—, Lambë and her husband were among the riders.

I was so happy, I felt it had to reach out and touch and saturate everyone around me. However, Adar showed no sign of wishing to join in my excited chatter—he stayed silent. It took me a few days of travelling before I realised why—of course he was sad! How could he be as happy as I, when this was to be our last ride together?

I rode close to him so I could whisper, "You are sad, Ada."

"Yes, Arwen." His voice was soft.

"What must come, will come, Ada."

He looked at me. "You are wise, daughter."

I hid a smile. "Yes."

"Who taught you such wisdom?"

I thought for a moment, suddenly serious. "My family: you and my mother, Elladan, Elrohir, Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, and…" I hesitated. "And Estel."

Adar, glad for any chance for laughter after so long a time of mourning, roared with forced laughter. I laughed, too, feeling strangely removed from the whore thing. Our voices, laughing merrily, crisp and clear on a Springtime morning, were far, far away… I could hardly hear them.

And so when I realised we had both stopped laughing and begun weeping a little, it hardly surprised me. The tears running down my face were ones brought on by twisted emotions… how to untangle them? Would I ever laugh again without weeping?

Celebgil, sensing the discomfort in the mood, requested permission to sing us a mournful lovesong he'd written recently. Having obtained permission, he pulled his tiny travelling lyre out of his cloak.

The chords he struck were jarring—and from the first words out of his mouth, I knew this was no lullaby. This was a bitter, discordant release of bitter and discordant emotions; and when he turned to meet my eyes, I knew who they were aimed at.

_Hwinya-lomin  
Nurtante ho antalye  
San elye ava cen ni_

_Elye vant or  
Elyecen ho nwalyenya  
Elye ava oio cen ni_

Lussale amai hirni

Mela i-ambar elye vant or

Lanat nan i-ausa

Lanat nan i-neuro

Hyarya natella mi i-léo

Mi rainlye ni natul vanwa  
_Mi i-serce nar ni natul urwa  
Ar elye ava oio cen ni__15_

A tear trickled down my cheek. With the coming of Middle-Earth's new dawn, some had to meet their night… and Celebgil was one of those unfortunate.

15. Celebgil's song on the journey to Lothlorien  
_Shadows swirl  
They hide me from your face  
So you can't see me_

_You walk on  
You see nothing of my pain  
You never see me_

Whispered voices find me  
Loving the ground you walk on  
Nothing but a ghost  
Nothing but a follower  
Left behind in your shadow

_In your smile I become lost  
In a blood-red fire I am burning  
Yet you never see me_


	25. In The Gardens: Eowyn

**Chapter XII: In The Gardens**

**19 March, 3019**

The next morning I got up early and slipped through the garden to the wall. It rose above the City; one could see forever, it seemed. As I climbed the stone steps, I looked down at my feet. The steps were engraved with runes I could not read. I felt left out, somehow, to fail to understand the language of this place. But whether one could read them or not, the runes were decorative—they were beautiful.

I reached the top of the wall and was amazed at the view. The centre of the City was the highest point, and I was now at the highest point of that highest point. The Sunrise blazed on level with my gaze. I let down my hair—which Ioreth had taught me to pin up under a scarf in the style of Gondorian women—and the wind caught it.

In my thin chemise and skirt, so evocative of my white gown in Rohan, I might have been standing on the steps of Edoras, watching the flags blow in the wind, looking out over the fields of my beloved country.

But the view was so different; the cold pavement under my feet was smoothly sanded, not roughly hewn rock dug up from a nearby quarry. I felt different, and frightened at the feeling.

Just when the rim of the Sun had cleared the mountains, and the golden sphere stood staring me in the eyes, I felt someone draping a cloak over my shoulders. I recognised Faramir's voice whispering, "You must be freezing, Milady."

I must have heard his footsteps coming up the stairs, but I had been so absorbed in my own thoughts that no conscious recognition of his approach had broken through.

"Thank you, Milord," I said, examining the fabric he had covered me with. It was a deep blue, inset with tiny white stones—diamond or crystal, I knew not and cared not. It evoked the night sky, and the brooch—which I closed myself—was the eight-pointed star I had seen on so many helms and breastplates in Aragorn's company. "It's beautiful," I commented.

"It was my mother's cloak," he said. "Finduilas of Amroth. She passed away many years ago, and it has lain in my father's chamber for a long time. When I saw you up here, I decided I would make a present of it to you… will you accept it, as a token of our friendship?"

"Are we friends, milord?" I asked.

"Perhaps we are not as intimate friends as I would like," he said. "But if we continue in the same House for any amount of time, we soon will. Shall it then be a token of our future friendship?"

"Yes, of course," I agreed. I had nothing against a friendship with this man. He was strong and noble, as I was discovering the closer he came, and when his fingers touched my neck to place the cloak I felt their warmth and gentleness. Were all Gondorians as gentle as he and Aragorn? And yet Faramir of the two was the one I would trust to lift a fallen baby bird off the ground and replace him in his nest, not a feather disturbed. I felt his care and softness in every movement; and yet there was no weakness, which I had always assumed must accompany any display of mildness. I knew he could hold his own in a battle; he could rage against the enemy with the best of them—and yet his motivation was not the urge to murder and slaughter; rather to revenge his loved ones that had fallen under the foe's swords, to prevent any other of his companions from meeting with the same fate.

"I am glad of it," he said. "And if you have looked your fill for the morning on the Eastern horizon, what say you to a meal, and perhaps a time of talking in the gardens?"

My stomach growled loudly, and I blushed at the rudeness. "I am… a little hungry."

He smiled broadly and took my hand. "I thought so. The cooks in the Houses would feed us nothing but broth for the next age, would I permit it, but I have insisted a finer meal be prepared for the White Lady of Rohan and her small attendant, as well as the Lord of the City. Breakfast awaits the three of us, and already Meriadoc of the Shire sits at the table."

I laughed. "From what I have seen of Shire folk, if we delay any longer, we shall arrive to an empty table!"

"And a full Hobbit!" agreed Faramir. "Come, let us go."

He helped me carefully down the steps I had so nimbly climbed only two hours ago, and allowed me to dress more appropriately before meeting them in the small banquet hall prepared for us.

Ioreth was shocked at my attire, and that I had conversed so shamelessly with a _man_ before the entire _City_ with my hair down, in nothing but a chemise and skirt! She hurriedly dressed me in a dark green and blue dress and pinned my hair under the familiar black scarf. "Now you are beautiful," she remarked, as if I were ugly before.

My entrance to the eating hall did not go unnoticed, as I had hoped it would. Faramir and Meriadoc had waited eating for me, and upon my arrival, Meriadoc drew in a breath, as did I.

"Merry!"

"Éowyn!" we exclaimed simultaneously, then laughed.

"You look so well!" I said when there was silence. "The Healers truly did a remarkable work with you! I thought you dead!"

"As I did you, Lady," Merry replied. "But after the fall of the Black Rider"—by which he meant the Black Captain—"I remained conscious, and you did not. One of my kinsfolk found me on the battlefield shortly after you and the King were found and supposed dead, and he took me to the Healers, and then Aragorn healed you and Faramir, and then he healed me."

I frowned. "But if I was supposed dead than how did I get to the Healers?"

"That I can answer, Milady," said Faramir. "The Prince Imrahil was looking at the fallen, and when he saw you among them, he thought he saw your chest rise and fall a little, and to be certain, he placed his shield before your lips. Then it was discovered you were yet alive, and so your brother bore you here, where the Lord Aragorn wrought your healing."

"Yes, Strider," agreed Merry. "That, and a little pipeweed, are the reason I stand before you now, alive and well. And having explained the reason for my continued existence, would it be impolite of me to persist in existing by tucking into the delicious meal our hosts have prepared for us?"

Of course that was a hint to stop talking and begin the meal, and we began to feast.

Afterwards, Merry went to talk to the Warden about looking in the gardens and seeing if anything of the smoking variety could be found there—his stash was running a little low. Faramir and I went out in the garden, I still wearing the cloak with which he had provided me. The sun had risen fully by now, and when Faramir patted the grass he found it dry. "Will you sit here?" he asked. "I find it pleasant in the heat of the day."

We sat down, and began talking. He asked me questions about Edoras, and I found myself willing to answer, and tell even more than was asked. I told him of Mother and Théodred and Éomer… even of my father and of Gríma Wormtongue. All the while I talked, all the while I opened my heart and shared my dreams, I was telling myself, _You fool! He can read your mind; he knows your history from three words you share; he sees more than you say. Stop talking!_ But it was impossible to stop the flow.

My love for Aragorn I even shared, hardly able to help myself. I described Aragorn as I had come to know him: strong, yet gentle, proud, yet able to humble himself in times of need. Faramir admitted he had suspected my adulation for him from tones in my voice when we'd spoken of our mutual healer; and now, he said, many things I had said made more sense. As I admitted this, I felt something go from my emotion—some of the burn cooled in confessing my love for this unattainable man: the romance lessened when it ceased to be a secret, printed in invisible letters across my heart.

I still wonder, sometimes, what he thought of this overwhelming flow of information. Was he taken aback by my confidence? Did he see me as a street gossip for so easily sharing my past with him? He certainly gave no indication of either notion; indeed, he encouraged the conversation in subtle ways, keeping quiet commentary when my emotions got the better of my voice, rephrasing more ambiguous statements that he might understand the clearer, and all the while met my gaze with his clear brown eyes.

As the day grew longer, he repaid my confidence by telling me about his father, who had recently died, and his brother, slain by orcs a few months ago. Boromir, he said his name was, and Faramir had looked up to him and loved him dearly. I felt his pain—he was not the only one to lose kin recently.

He was an accomplished listener; I found myself treated to a three-dimensional picture of myself, thanks to his habit of repeating what I had told him from another person's view—my father's, Aragorn's, Éomer's… I found myself understanding other people more than I had before, looking through the eyes he taught me to use. And as I understood them more, my heart hurt less.

Five days after our conversation on the grass, we stood at the top of the wall again. I allowed myself a passing glance North—towards the lush meadows I hadn't seen for what felt like years. But then with a sigh, I turned East.

Hearing my sigh, and catching sight of my searching eyes turned towards the rising Sun, Faramir asked, "What do you look for, Éowyn?" We had a few days previous dropped the formalities of Lord and Lady, choosing to call one another by our given names.

Without turning, I said, "Does not the Black Gate lie yonder? And must he not now come thither? It is seven days since he rode away."

"Seven days," Faramir agreed. "But think not ill of me if I say to you that they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because the fear and doubt of this evil are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."

I looked down at the ground to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks. "Lose what you have found, milord?" I asked shyly. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could not lose." A pause… Faramir was looking at me with the eyes of a lover and not a friend. I, too, had found something I did not wish to lose: a man who loved me as a sister, not a wife. I had found a man willing to accept me as a friend and companion, without the obligation of lover. "But—come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all!"

He stared at me—my voice had taken on a wild tone, as a stormy mood overtook me. "Éowyn?"

"I stand upon some dreadful brink," I said, "And it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet: I wait for some dreadful stroke of doom."

"Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," Faramir murmured.

There was silence—the world was waiting—there was a pause in which something happened.

Something happened.

In a single moment, a wave of light—colour—swept the world. A breeze blew over us, filled with sweetness and newness of life. Trees took on new vivacity; the sky was a brilliant blue. The air smelled fresher; the mantle I was wearing felt warmer and softer.

I did not know our hands had met until Faramir let my hand drop, and then, looking down at it, I saw we had gripped them until white fingerprints marked our skin.

I turned to Faramir, only to discover that he had turned to face me. _"What has happened?"_ I breathed.

"It reminds me of Númenor," he said.

"Of Númenor?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Of the Westerness that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

I knew what he spoke of, for similar nightmares often haunted my sleep, but I did not see how it related to what lay before us. "Then you think soon Darkness will come? Darkness Unescapable?" I shivered. He must have thought I was cold, for he took off his cloak and put it over my shoulders, over the mantle he had given me.

"No," said Faramir. Somehow, both of us had drawn very, very near to one another without consciously moving a step. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that a great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are tight; and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny." His voice gained an eager and excited note. "Éowyn—Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan—in this hour, I do not believe that any darkness can or will endure."

And then he leaned forward and kissed my forehead. My heart broke—so quickly had I lost this friend, when I had only just found him.

We stared at each other, breathless and confused. The wind heightened; and my scarf, already loosened by the breeze, slipped out of my hair and blew away. The braids of my hair unravelled as if an unseen hand had gently undone them; and as Faramir's hair blew so did mine, combining dark and light. Thus we stood for I don't know how long; lost in thought, lost in each other's eyes.

And then an Eagle was spotted in the Western sky. I had never seen an Eagle, but had heard many tales of these monstrous birds, noble and good, that could converse in as many languages as men. I was astonished at the wingspan, for they were at least a quarter the size of the Black Captain's mount, and he had been of the beast kingdom, not bird.

He flew low over the City, shouting a poem or song in the Gondorian tongue, then again in the Common Tongue, and then in the ancient Gondorian spoken only by greybeards in their towers, that all might hear and understand his message.

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,  
For the realm of Sauron is ended forever,  
And the dark tower is thrown down

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,  
For your watch hath not been in vain,  
And the Black Gate is broken,  
And your King has passed through,  
And he is victorious

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West  
For you King shall come again,  
And he shall dwell among you  
All the days of your life

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed  
And he shall plant it in the high places  
And the City shall be blessed!

_Sing, all ye people!_

Faramir and I turned to one another, he weeping and I laughed from the now-explained joy in our hearts. Even as we turned, the voices of the City, rejoicing in the tidings of their freedom, rose with the Eagle's.


	26. The Mirror Of Galadriel: Arwen

**Chapter XIII: The Mirror of Galadriel**

**20 May, 3019**

We finally reached Lothlorien, and our arrival was heralded with as much joy as the Elven folk of that realm could put forth. But already I could see that the loss of the Ring of Power had diminished Nenya's strength; the light of the Elves was fading. The trees still shown golden and fair, but all the Elf-made glory was lessened. The lamps did not burn as bright as my memory seemed to recall; I thought I remembered the silver of the curtains to reflect throughout the whole of the wood.

Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel met us barely after we had crossed the Nimrodel. "Indyo! Vesta-ion16!" they called, ushering us into their woodland world.

Galadriel was unchanged; her skin was still so white as to be reflectively silver; her eyes were still clear and grey as twin pools of water. But the Ring on her finger had lessened in its beauty; its light was growing dim.

She followed my gaze to her hand, and said, "Yes, Indyo. It is dying."

I lowered my eyes. "I am sorry, milady."

I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Would you have had the Ring last forever in the power of the Dark Lord?" she asked in her low whisper of a voice. "There was no other choice."

Celeborn led Adar off to some further corner of Lothlorien; Galadriel took me to her mirror.

A staircase led down through a maze of tall trees into a small clearing, thoroughly shaded and covered by the trees. Looking up, not even a ray of sunlight could be distinguished through the branches of the trees. In the middle of the clearing stood a little basin, crafted out of silver, sitting upon a table made of stone.

"Look in the mirror, Indyo."

I knew the dangers of the mirror. It could show anything, true or untrue. I hesitated, looking at her for affirmation. She nodded.

I walked across the clearing. The moss under my feet padded my steps so no sound could be heard, not even the rustle of my gown.

Stepping up to the basin, which was just below chest-height, I held back my hair so that it did not touch the water.

At first all I could see was the tree branches above and my peering face reflected in the dark water. Then it rippled, moved by some unfelt wind, and clouded, and when it cleared, I saw a woman. I recognised myself, older now, sitting on the throne in Gondor.

Somehow, I was transported into a dream, where I was living the future.

_I was sitting on the Queen's throne in Gondor. Beside me was my husband, Aragorn, whose beard and hair were now fully grey. He was unchanged in all else: his eyes still had the same crystalline sparkle; his skin was still smooth, though darker and careworn. My son—_my son!_—Eldarion, now grown, sat in the seat of the Steward with his wife, Sarawen. On her lap, she held a baby, and when he turned to look at me, I saw he had Aragorn's smile, toothless and full of child-slobber as it was. _

_Aragorn took my hand and stood, not without pain. I could feel his age, even as I could feel that I had not aged as mortals do. "At last, Lady Evenstar, fairest in this world, and most beloved, my world is fading." A knife stabbed my heart, for I knew of what he spoke. The Choice… the Doom of the Kings of Men, that it is granted to them to choose the time of their death. "Lo! We have gathered, and we have spent, and now the time of payment draws near."_

_I felt my face pale. "Estel—would you then before your time leave your people that dwell by your word?"_

"_Not before my time," he said, taking off his mantle. Underneath, he wore a tunic of grey cloth, soft and Elven-made. The pendant, token of our love, was still around his neck. "Not before my time. For if I will not go now, I must soon go perforce. And Eldarion our son is a man full-ripe for the kingship."_

_Tears filled my eyes. I could remember all our past days… all our joys… and sorrows… Looking in Galadriel's mirror as I was, even so I was in the future, able to remember what it was to know a man, I who was yet a virgin; I could remember the pain of childbirth. I could remember how it had felt to hold our first child, a daughter called Minya Taurewen__17__; how it had felt when our second child, Tatya Rosseion__18__, a son, was lost to a plague that wracked the city. _

_He took my hand and together we descended from the dais. He presented the winged crown and sceptre of the kingdom to Eldarion with appropriate words of wisdom for his son to carry throughout his reign. He embraced his daughters, and stroked their hair—Taurewen, Vanimatari__19__, and Elvehendu__20__. Taurewen was wed to a Lord of the City, and already had two children—a twin son and daughter not presented with titles yet and so called Haryon and Arinel__21__. _

_My daughters had tears in their eyes, knowing what was about to happen, but Eldarion stood firm, and already I saw the nobility of the King-to-be in him. _

_This task completed, we made the weary journey to The Silent Street: Dol Amroth. With every step, my heart grew heavier with dread. Saying goodbye to the man who meant more to me than anyone else in the world—the man I had renounced my birthright, my family, my entire race for was about to pass away where I could not yet follow._

_There was a bed in The House of Kings prepared for this glorious King of Gondor; this Dunedain: Aragorn had foreseen this day a long time ago. As I helped him to lay down, I was astonished at how weary he was—how old he suddenly seemed. He had been so strong a king for so long… I had assumed he would never quit. _

_But every thing must come to an end… and we had reached that end now. This was our end, the end of my world and the end of his world. Our worlds revolved around one another; with the ceasing of one, the other must also come to an end. I had no hope for a life without Estel; it was as unimaginable as life without the Sun, without air, without water… Here, in a crypt, was our end. _

_I knelt down beside him, my black skirt attracting the ashy dirt that covered the stones, and took his hand—so cold it seemed! "Estel…" A tear slid down my cheek. _

_Aragorn reach over and brushed it from my face. "Lady Undomiel," he said, "The hour is indeed hard, yet it was made even in the day that we met in the Garden of Elrond where none now walk. And on the hill of Cerin Amroth where we forsook both the Shadow and the Twilight this Doom we accepted. Take counsel with yourself, beloved Arwen, and ask whether you would have me wait until I fall from my high seat unmanned and witless. Nay, milady, I am the last of the Númenoreans, and the latest King of the Eldar-Days; and to me has been given not only a life-span thrice that of the Men of Middle-Earth, but also the grace to go at my will, and give back that gift. Now, therefore, I will sleep." He shut his eyes. _

_Terrified, I whispered, "Estel, no…" as I stroked his hair back from his face. _

_His eyes opened. "I speak no comfort to you, Arwen," he said, his voice weak, "for there is no comfort for pain within the circles of this world. The uttermost choice is before you: to abide the Doom of Men; or to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall be there evergreen."_

"_But never more than a memory," I breathed, tears coursing down my face now in full force. "Nay, dear, dear Estel. That choice is long over. There is now no ship that would bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men. But, Estel, if this is the Gift of the Valar to the Race of Man, it is a bitter one to receive!"_

"_So it would seem," he replied. "But there are compensations to mortality that your kind know nothing of. We are not bound forever to the circles of this world, dear one—beyond them we will find more than mere memory!"_

_I leaned over him, and his arms wrapped around me, gathered me to himself and kissed me. And in that final kiss his lips grew cold, for in that kiss he died. And as I pulled away from his body that would never again hold me close, I saw that the Evenstar pendant's chain had broken, and it had slipped into my sash. For a moment I stared at it—a reminder of all I had forsaken for one man. Was it worth it? Had I done wrong, now that all had ended? Would the immortality of the West been enough to make up for him?_

_Weeping, I replaced it on the chain around his neck. "No," I said aloud. "Nothing compares or could ever replace what we had, my love."_

Beyond the circles of this world…

"_Or what we will someday have again."_

_I drew a small leatherbound book from my sash—a book of memories that I had written in the last years of Aragorn's reign. I laid it on his chest, beside the Sword of Anduril and the pendant. Then I stood and walked towards the door to venture once more into the Land of the Living. _

_In the doorway, I turned to look once more at Aragorn, my only reason for life. In the shadows of the vault, the light only reflected off of the pendant, which glittered like a star, winking at me one last time before I shut the door. _

_I reentered the City, where all were alternately mourning the King's death and celebrating Eldarion's ascension to the throne. "Queen Undomiel!" someone called. _

_I stood stockstill at the title. "Call me no more Undomiel!" I cried loudly to all present. "From this day henceforth I am Nirenis. I have loved, and I still love; I have lived, and I still live; I have shone like a star in the halls of men, but now the light of Valar is extinguished with my tears. I am Nirenis, Woman of Tears."_

_My pronouncement was accepted, more to humour me than because they understood me. Few had ever understood me: the immortal, unchanging queen of Ellessar was whispered about. It had taken some long years to conceive a son, though Wilwarin was born early in our marriage, and that alone had given wagging tongues reason to whisper. And over our reign, which had lasted some centuries, as those of the court who had been maidens and youths on my marriage-day became hags and old men, while I stayed the same as the day they first laid eyes on me, some daring gossips had whispered _witchcraft_, while others simply stood in reserved awe of me and mine. Because of this, there were few close friends in the court. Lambë had long ago passed into the West with her husband Bragolcú and son Ivanda__22__. Of Celebgil none can tell, for he disappeared soon after Aragorn and I were wed. _

_The general consensus around the court was that the death of my husband had robbed me of my senses, and they seemed all to eager to see me off when I announced I was leaving for the long uninhabited realm of Lothlorien, probably never to return. _

_Eldarion and his sisters kissed me and bade me farewell as dutifully as might be expected; I wished them health and happiness in the lives they would now live without me. Tears were shed as the Queen Undomiel, Lady Nirenis, left her White City for the last time; riding a white mare the King of Rohan, Elfentwine__23__, had sent to me at the birth of Elvehendu. Her name was Dernborn, for she had been born when Arodi, a noble stallion descended from Shadowfax, had stolen Anborn, a mare from another herd, and taken her off into the hills. When they were finally found in the forest of Fangorn, Anborn had a foal following at her heels—Dernborn. _

_Alone did I ride from the White City to Lothlorien, no longer fearing raiders on the roads Aragorn and I had cleared of all things vile. At the edge of the forest, I dismounted Dernborn and said, "Now, my friend, our years together are ended. Return to your folk in the North, and think no more of me."_

_Dernborn tossed her head, turned around, and set off at a fast clip for Edoras. _

_I walked towards Cerin Amroth, the place where it had all begun for us, and with every step I felt myself age. By the time I reached the creek at the foot of the hill, I was too weary to walk another step. Pausing, I looked at my reflection in the water. _

_A woman with white hair and shrivelled skin looked back at me. My immortality was falling away from me, and I was powerless to stop it. _

_I sat down in the stream; the cooling waters ran over me, clinging to me and pulling me further down. I did not fight them; allowed them to carry me where they would. _

_And in Nenya's embrace did I fall asleep at last, whispering only three last words into the air of Middle-Earth: "_Tennoio_, indo-nin."_

_I opened my eyes to find myself standing in a hall I had never seen before, yet knew as though I had lived my life there. The pillars were formed of blooming mallorn trees, and looking up to their tops, barely distinguishable in the heavens, twinkling stars peered down at me, forming the final roof. As I took a step forward, I realised my feet were bare—had I lost my slippers in the water? But I was glad of it—barefoot, I could feel that the floor was lush with deep moss, which was sprinkled with grasses, golden leaves, and flowers. Yet when I stepped upon a flower, it did not smash into the earth; it sprang back anew, yet at my foot's crushing gave off with more potency the beautiful scent they provide. _

"Undomiel."

_I turned to see who had called my name. "I am Nirenis…" I started to say, then stopped. _

_Aragorn leaned against a tree, staring at me. He was once again the youth I had chanced upon in Adar's gardens, once again young and slender and handsome; clad in an green Elven cotehardie. "Didn't I tell you we would wander Ëa's halls together?" he asked, and I saw the familiar crooked smile. _

"_My darling!" I closed the space between us and grabbed him in so violent an embrace that he made weak protest in something not unlike _"oof!" _"I thought I had lost you forever!" I said, holding him tightly as never have fear of that again. _

_He smiled. "Could such a love as ours be lost? No—it will live for eternity in the halls of _Ë_a."_

"_Tennoio," I whispered. "And what of our children?"_

"_Come with me," he said, leading me through the halls. Our feet made no sound crossing the mossy ground through halls as beautiful as the one I had first arrived. We turned a few times finally entering an enclosed room: three walls were composed of tree branches and trunks, as the halls had been; but the fourth wall was empty, and through the gaping space, I found myself looking out on Middle-Earth, as if I had been standing on a high mountain in the East, looking out over the land. _

_Anywhere my eyes focused on the vast expanse before me, I was granted the eyes of an Eagle, and could see and hear what happened in that place as if I were there. And so, looking at Gondor, I saw my Wilwarin and her Haryon and Arinel; I saw Filit and her now-betrothed; I saw my people, living happily under the reign of their king. _

"_Oh—Estel!" I whispered. "Is there anything left to desire in a place like this?"_

_He looked at me tenderly. "Not anymore."_

_And then we embraced once more in the halls of Ëa Iluvatar… but not for the last time. _

I pulled my head up from where I was bending over the pool with a jerk, and looked at Lady Galadriel, surprised to have a voice break into my thoughts. "What did you say, milady?" I barely noticed the tears still falling down my face.

"Do not weep; your tears may fall in the water."

I stepped away from the pool, desirous to see nothing more. "It… I saw…" I began, but stopped. No words could ever describe what I had seen, experienced, remembered.

"I know what it is you saw, Indyo."

"Is it truth?" I asked. The mirror was an unreliable guide; absolutes and possibilities were indistinguishable from one another within it. Only Galadriel had the discernment.

"It is."

"All of it? It will all end like that?" The afterlife was indeed meet compensation for the bitterness of death, but still the bitterness must be tasted.

"Yes," she said. And then, seeing my distress, she smiled. "But come; soon you and Aragorn will be wed. Be merry! Much shall come to pass before what you have seen in the mirror occurs. You know this, do you not?"

I nodded.

Galadriel looked at my necklace. I had changed the green pendant for an even simpler leaf worked out of gold. "Arwen, this is your wedding! You must wear something special. Here; I have saved this for you." She unclasped the necklace from her throat. It was a golden mallorn leaf—a real one, not a likeness—and a long, dark hair encased in crystal. "A mallorn leaf from our forests, to remind you of where you come from." She smiled. "And a hair from the head of Tinuviel, so you remember where you are going."

"Thank-you, milady," I said, clasping it around my neck.

"You walk in her likeness, Arwen."

This compliment, coming from the wise woman of the Elves, was not as tiresome as when others said it. "You are very kind, milady."

She kissed my forehead and took my hand. We left the mirror and wandered the woods. "It is many years," Galadriel said, "Since you and I have walked here together."

"Aye," I nodded. "Much has come to pass."

"We will not meet here again, you and I, and you will return here only once."

I shuddered, remembering the cold grip of the water.

"Even longer," she continued, "Since your mother and I were here together. You do not look like her."

"No, milady." My mother was taller than I, with golden hair and vibrant green eyes.

"She was not content to stay when she was wounded," she said.

My eyes filled with tears.

"She longed for the West."

One fell down my cheek. "What was wrong with this place?" I demanded, a tremor of bitterness in my voice. "What was wrong with here?"

Lady Galadriel's own eyes had tears in them. "I also long to go to the West, Arwen."

"But why did she have to go right then?" I asked. "Now I can never see her. I will never see my mother again!" My voice rose to almost a scream. "You waited! You're still waiting! Why couldn't she? If anyone should not have been able to wait, oughtn't it to have been _you_? Nana had never even _seen_ Valinor!"

"No, Arwen," Galadriel agreed softly.

"How could she do that to me?" I yelled. "I thought we would be together again. I thought I would see her again!"

"Don't you think that she did as well, Arwen?" Galadriel's voice was now almost as loud as mine. "Don't you think it will sadden her when your father crosses the Seas alone to tell her that you will never come? Don't you think it will sadden her that she will never see her beautiful daughter again? What of that, Arwen?"

I was silent.

"Do not be so swift to judge your mother, Indyo. She only did what her heart told her." She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. "Like another I know."

I smiled wanly.

"And for my part, Indyo, were it not that only recently has my duty in this world been fulfilled, I would have departed for my homeland long ago."

I looked at the faded ring on her finger.

"But your father will have been rested, and ready to begin preparation for renewing your journey. We must leave this place now." She took my hand and led me across the fields and through the forests of Lothlorien to Adar.

16. Indyo: Grandchild Vesta-ion: Son-in-law, literally marriage-son.

17. Minya Taurewen: Firstborn Girl of the Forest. Her 'true' name is Taurewen; she is called Minya because she is the firstborn. History tells us she was very tall and pale, with blond hair and grey eyes. Called Wilwarin by her father. Wilwarin: Butterfly; an endearment. Historians say that the eldest child of Aragorn + Arwen probably suffered from Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD)

18. Tatya Rosseion: Secondborn Son of the Rain. See above for explanation. His nickname, Russahina, indicates he probably had very vivid red hair.

19. Vanimatari: Queen of the Right/Good. Closer name used by family and friends was Filit: Little bird (finch). History books attest that the fourth child, second daughter of Aragorn + Arwen was born a month premature, and so very small.

20. Elvehendu: Starlike Eyes: a reference to her eyes, which history records as being round (probably an inheritance from Aragorn's mother, Gilraen) and very dark. Things would reflect very clearly in such dark eyes, and light would probably give the appearance of the night sky. Also known as Silmawen: Silver Girl. An endearment; not based on any appearance except (perhaps) the white clarity of her skin; she probably would have had the fairness of her mother's people.

21. Haryon and Arinel: Prince and Princess. Nicknames probably derived from their grandparents.

22. Ivanda: The Promise; Fulfilment of A Promise

23. Elfentwine: Elf-Ent-Friend; Friend of Elves and Ents


	27. The Taming Of The ShieldMaiden: Eowyn

**Chapter XIII: The Taming Of The Shield-Maiden**

**28 April, 3019**

It had been months since Faramir and I had stood together on the wall. Now he had taken up his office as Steward of the City in Aragorn's absence. All were busy preparing for the return of the King, and memory of Éowyn, lonely daughter of Éomund, seemed to be forgotten by the people of Gondor. Faramir was healed, so he no longer walked in the Garden with me, but dwelt in quarters in the lower City. Meriadoc was gone, also. I was alone, save for Faramir's occasional visit. I was alone with the wraiths of despair--for a time, Faramir's company had banished them, but as I spent more time alone, they returned.

I was sickening anew; all could see it. For a time, I had practiced daily with my sword, which I had coerced Ioreth into returning. Now I could scarcely lift it. The blush in my cheeks, which had been returning for a time, vanished. I was white and drawn; my brown eyes seemed to stand out from my stark face.

I knew the Warden must have sent word to my brother, for soon after my relapse became evident, I was barraged with messages from Éomer, asking me to join him in Cormallen, where he and the captains, as well as Aragorn, stayed. I refused; the wound Aragorn had inflicted still hurt too much to stand seeing him.

_I will never see that man again_, I would tell myself. _I am done with him_.

Did I love him then? No… the romance and passion of what I had felt were utterly destroyed in my bitterness and wounded pride at his rejection. There were rumours that his betrothed, a daughter of the Elves, was coming soon to be crowned his queen. I did not want to see her either; I hated them--I hated their love--I hated what they shared that I did not.

I would weep in the middle of the night, pounding my pillow in anger and bitterness. I was angry at Aragorn, my father, Gríma, Théodred… Faramir. Yes, Faramir. He had lifted me from my depression, and when I was somewhat healed, he had left me to tend to his City. Why this bothered me… that the lives of many overruled the happiness of one… was something I never allowed myself to dwell on for long.

In the twilight I would walk in the gardens, recounting my woes, longing for loved ones I had lost. And sometimes I would speak--to myself, to the sky, to whatever Being had created this land and left me with so much pain. I had a list of Rohirric oaths at my command--living in a House with toughened, hardened Men of the Mark gives one an education in many ways--and employed them lavishly. Hilandia would have been shocked. I thought of her as I spoke them. Her and Weynia. I missed them so.

One morning, as I was walking, I was wondering what had become of my horse, Windfola, after he had thrown Merry and myself to the ground, then bolted. Had anyone found him? What had they done with him?

"Éowyn."

Only one man said my name in such a way. I didn't turn my head. "Faramir."

"Come to the walls with me, Éowyn. I would speak with you if I may."

I acquiesced, and he took my hand and led me to the walls. Once there, walking along the causeway, he didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen where your brother awaits you?"

The warden must have told him about the messages. I did not meet his eyes as he gazed at me; I turned my eyes "Do you not know?"

"Two reasons there may be, but which is true I know not." I was astonished at the way my heart flinched at his words, rising to my throat as if to escape.

"I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer."

"Then… if you will have it so, milady," he began with a sheepish look. "You do not go, because only your brother called you, and to look upon the Lord Aragorn in his triumph would bring you no joy." He hesitated. "Or because I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannot choose between them." His grip on my hand--he had not yet relinquished it--tightened, and he said in a low, tender voice, "Éowyn, do you love me, or will you not?"

"I wished to be loved by another," I whispered. "But I desire no man's pity."

"That I know," he said, gently pulling me even closer. This was not Gríma's rough jerk, his long fingernails digging into my arm. This was Faramir, who loved me. He loved me. "You desired to have the love of Lord Aragorn, because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory, and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a captain may seem to a young soldier, he seemed to you admirable. For so he is--a lord among men, the greatest that now is. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing unless a brave death in battle."

Tears stung my eyes, and I looked at my feet.

"Look at me, Éowyn!" His hand touched my chin and raised it until my eyes were level with his. Tears streamed down my cheeks. His brown eyes were filled with tears and sorrow… and love. "Do no scorn pity born of a gentle heart, Éowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high born and valiant, and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the Elven-Tongue to tell. And"--he hesitated--"I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow but now--now, were you sorrowless, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you."

He drew in a breath, and I sensed he was bracing himself.

"Éowyn… do you not love me?"

I opened my mouth, scarcely know what reply to make. My emotions were shifting in all directions--I hardly knew how to respond to his proposal--for what else could his words mean?--whether denial of my love for him, or acceptance of his offer--and with what words to frame them in?

I knew I loved Faramir… somehow, slowly, the friendship had changed to love for a brother, and from platonic to… this. I loved him with all my strength. Were it necessary to save his life, I would have cast myself from the highest peak of the Citadel, ready and willing to smash myself to death on the ground below. My spirit rose far above us… I had not felt this exuberant and giddy since Éomer and I had snuck goblets of the men's ale in Edoras, many years ago.

This man I had not known two months ago was suddenly the dearest thing on earth to me. I had loved him since forever, it seemed… from the moment I had seen his face in the mists was too short a time for our love… had I not hungered for his touch even as I watched my father ride away to what was to be his death?

"I stand in Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun," a voice said, and I realised presently that it was my own. "And lo! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shield-maiden no longer, nor vie with the Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. No longer do I desire to be a queen."

Faramir laughed at me. "That is well," he said, "For I am no king. Yet I will wed with the White lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And, if she will, let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien, and there we will have a garden. All things will grow with joy there if the White Lady comes."

"Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?" I teased, "And would you have your own people say: 'There goes a man who has tamed a wild shield-maiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Númenor to choose?'"

Just before he kissed me, Faramir murmured, "I would." Then he pulled me into his arms, and there, on top of the wall, where anyone and everyone could see us, we embraced and kissed. When we parted, some centuries later, he took my hand and we ran like to excited children to the Warden.

"Here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and she is healed," he said with a solemnity that astonished me until I saw the limpidness of his eyes.

"Then I release her from my charge," the Warden smiled. "And I bid her farewell, and may she never suffer hurt or sickness again. I commend her to the care of the Steward of the City until her brother returns."

"Yet now that I have leave to depart," I said, "I would remain. For this House has become to me of all dwellings most blessed."

So I remained in my quarters, but Faramir's visits increased to nearly every day. And if for some reason he could not get away from the Citadel to see me, I went and saw him. Ioreth had taught me the geography of the City, and while my first venture outside of the House got me almost hopelessly lost, I soon learned to navigate to see my beloved.

Éomer came soon after--rather, the King Éomer son of Éomund of the House of Eorl the Young of Rohan came soon after. He said little to me, other than that he was glad to see me and to offer congratulations on having found love. He was preoccupied, along with the rest of the City, in preparations for Aragorn's eminent crowning as King of Gondor.

On the first day of May, we gathered around the entrance to the City of Gondor. The Gates had fallen in battle shortly before the arrival of the _Eorlingas_, but a barrier had been set until new ones could be remade. Those of nobility had the forward positions--namely, myself, Faramir, Hurin Warden of the Keys, Elfhelm, and the other Captains of Gondor. A path was cleared from the barrier to the Citadel, strewn with rose petals and other flowers.

The men of the company that had come with Aragorn to Dunharrow--the Dunedain--were presently seen walking towards the barrier with Aragorn at their head. When I could make him out, I saw that his mail was black, girt with silver; his mantle was white and clasped with a great green jewel; and around his brown was bound a white star on a silver circlet. And soon I could even distinguish the familiar white jewel on the chain around his neck.

Beside him strode Gandalf and the Prince Imrahil, clothed in white; behind them came Meriadoc and three of his kind. One was the Hobbit I had seen upon waking from my time in the Shadowlands.

A trumpet rang from somewhere, and all the excited conversation around me ceased. Faramir and Lord Hurin went forth to greet the company, followed by four men in armour carrying baskets of the black _lebethron_. Faramir knelt before Aragorn, proffering a white rod. "The Last Steward begs leave to surrender his office," he said.

Aragorn did not take the rod. "That office is not ended," he replied. "And it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!"

Faramir stood, and now seeing them together I realised how much taller Aragorn was; Faramir's build was somewhat barrel-chested; Aragorn had the long leanness of his kin. Faramir turned to the City and cried: "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! One has come to claim the kingship at last! Here now is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dunedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, The Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Numenor. Shall he be King and enter into the City to dwell there?"

All the people shouted in their different tongues and accents: "_Yes! Aye! Ye! Yea!_"

"Men of Gondor, the lore-masters tell that it was the custom of old that the King should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he go alone and receive it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since now things must be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last King, whose days passed in the time of our long fathers of old."

The guards stepped forward and opened the casket. Faramir held up the crown that had been inside and handed it to Aragorn, who took it and held it aloft. It was silver and gold, with two wings in front and back. Aragorn spoke in the Ancient Gondorian tongue: _"Et Ëarello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-Metta."_ One of the Gondorians at my side translated quietly for the benefit of the Rohirric Riders and others who had not learned Ancient Gondorian in their youth. "Out of the Great Sea to Middle Earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

Aragorn did not set the crown on his head--he returned it to Faramir, surprising myself and many others, I think. He explained: "By the labour of many have I come into my inheritance. In token of this, I would have the Ringbearer bring the crown to me, and let Gandalf set it on my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."

One of the Hobbits came forward; I supposed him to be Frodo Nine-Fingered, for his right middle finger was merely a stump. He was the one revered by the City. Ioreth had told me he had vanquished The Dark Lord in single combat. I found this hard to swallow, but apparently something of the kind had happened, for all the rumours in the City plainly said he had somehow delivered us from the Evil One.

Frodo took the crown from Faramir and handed it to Gandalf. Aragorn knelt, and Gandalf set the crown upon Aragorn's head, saying: "Now come the days of the King; may they be blessed."

Aragorn rose. He was changed in some way--he looked older, perhaps, and yet younger, than only moments before. The light of his Kingship shone in his eyes; his victorious spirit was unvanquished. He turned, meeting in turn the eyes of all those gathered around him. He saw me, and I met his eyes coolly before he looked away. He seemed even taller than before; the stone around his neck glistened in the bright Sunlight with even greater brilliance. In a sudden return of my previously unsurfaced bitterness, I wanted to rip it from his throat.

The silence was unbearable. All men could not speak for the wonder of seeing the man that they had thought already noble beyond compare elevated to even greater glory before their eyes. Faramir cried: "Behold the King!"

All the trumpets were blow. Aragorn went forth to the barrier, and Lord Hurin pushed it back. There was music from an unseen band, and watchers from the rooftops threw down more rose petals, showering the King and his followers with sweet-smelling leaves. The crowds he passed on his way to the Citadel fell in behind, closing the path as he went. Faramir returned to me, beaming with joy, glistening with sweat from the heat. He kissed my cheek, and pointed to a high tower. "Look, Éowyn."

Someone had unfurled a banner with the White Tree and Seven Stars, and it waved gaily in the wind. All around were so happy; I could not help but indulge in their jubilation. Laughing and talking, we followed the King to his throne, where he sat down to hold court.

Éomer and I were summoned before the King a few days later. I greeted him as coolly as was polite, then joined Faramir in the Steward's seat. He wouldn't slide over to make room for me, so I sat in his lap. Aragorn, Éomer, and four guards--the only others in the room at the moment--chuckled at our play as he tickled me to make me get off. "Milady, you are not as much a feather-weight as you seem to think," he grunted.

I stood slightly and then plopped down with more vigour. "I know."

"I need my legs, milady."

"And _I_ need _you_." I leaned back so he could embrace me. He kissed my hair.

Ioreth and a few other ladies entered. I leaped to my feet. Faramir stood, also.

Aragorn turned to Éomer. "Between us there can be no word of giving or taking, nor of reward, for we are brethren. In happy hour did Eorl ride form the North; never ahs any league of peoples been more blessed, so that neither Gondor nor Rohan shall fail the other, nor ever fall. Now, as you know, we have laid Théoden the Blessed in a tomb in the Hallows, and there he shall lie forever if you will. Or if you desire it, we will come to Rohan and bring him back to rest with his own people."

"Since the day you rose before me out of the green grass," Éomer replied, "I have loved you, and that love shall not fail. But now I must depart a little while for my own realm where there is much to heal and to set in order. But as for the fallen, when all is made ready we will return for him; here let him sleep until then."

Faramir turned to me, and I saw his question before his mouth opened.

"I too must go back to my own land," I told him, "And look upon it once more, and help my brother in his labour. But when the one I long loved as a father is laid to rest, I will return."

Then we left them, and all the way back to Rohan Faramir's farewell kiss burned on my lips.


	28. The Land of the HorseLords: Arwen

**Chapter XIV: The Land of The Horse-Lords**

**27 March, 3019**

We finally left Lothlorien: a bittersweet parting for me, for I knew it would be the last time I walked in those woods in the company of my family; yet I longed to be gone from there and into the arms of my beloved. It seemed an eternity since he and I had bade each other a silent farewell on the steps of Adar's house.

In our company travelled Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. I was content to ride between them, talking at whiles with one or the other. Galadriel spent most of her time withdrawn and deep in thought, and Celeborn was glad to share time with the daughter of his beloved Celebrían. At night, as before, we would break for camp and some of the servants would set up pavilions… one for myself, one for Adar, one for the Lord and Lady of the Wood, and a few others for our companions.

Eighteen days after we had left Lothlorien, we had crossed into the realm of Rohan; a land I found barren and deserted in comparison to the beautiful wooded forests I was accustomed to. There were few trees here, and those stood twisted and gnarled on the stark landscape.

That day we saw two white horses bearing riders running towards us. I recognised them immediately, and urged my horse to the head of the escort to meet them. "It's Elladan and Elrohir!" I called over my shoulder to the rest.

I met my brothers a little ahead of the company. "We have come to take you and your company to Edoras!" Elrohir said when he and Elladan had joined us.

I blanched slightly, remembering the woman from my dream—Éowyn. I did not fear her, but a meeting would be awkward.

"Are we far?" Celeborn asked.

"Very close," Elladan said. "It is less than a day's ride."

"Can't we continue on to the White City?" I asked, begrudging any pause in my journey.

"There is no reason why we should not have a few days' rest in ease," Adar said. "Estel is not going anywhere, Tindomerel!"

I blushed as the company laughed at me.

"Very well," Galadriel said slowly. "Let us go. I long for a cool bath!"

The ride to Edoras passed swiftly; thank the Valar. As we entered the gates of the City, the villagers came out to receive us… or to gawk at us, I was nto sure which. We must have been a surprising contrast… they were toughened by sun exposure, we were silvery pale; their clothing was wool and in earthy shades of green, brown, and blue, while ours was thin and comfortable, in hues of silver, lavender, and sky blue.

All was eerily silent as I felt them scrutinising me. I looked around. A little girl with her mother stood near the road staring at me, her brown eyes wide with astonishment. A little boy of her age could not keep his gaze off of the sceptre that hung from Adar's waist. A babe in arms blinked steadily at us. Celebgil, who had somehow ended up in a place beside me, gave a somewhat sadistic chuckle. "They've never seen our like before," he muttered to me.

But the stillness was broken by the clatter of horse's hooves. In through a gate to the back of Edoras rose a woman in white on a bay horse. She pulled up sharply when she saw the company in the courtyard. In a heartbeat, her eyes had travelled every inch of us and taken in the whole situation. When ours met, I started—it was Éowyn, the woman from my dream.

Another silence—this one full of tension. She calmly, coolly, icily dismounted and gave the reins to a child standing off to the side. "Put him away for me, please, Haleth," she said. Her voice, when not choked by tears, was lower than most women's were: it was cold like her posture, her attitude, and her movements. She reminded me of a woman of ice… Galadriel had a cool feel to her, but not like this. Nothing like this woman, who emulated the epitome of cold.

She held herself still, examining us. I took the time to observe her, as well. Éowyn was tall, dressed in a white slit overdress and a grey-blue full-skirted under-dress. Her golden hair, shining in the sunlight, was tousled and windswept, escaping from its loosely plaited braid.

She finished her examination, gave me a calm look tinged with malice, and whirled around. Her under-dress swirled in the wind as she walked up the steps and into the house.

Soon after she left us, the King came out. He, unlike his sister, greeted us warmly. He had fought beside Elladan and Elrohir, and greeted them as the foster-brethren of Aragorn, with whom he had a warm friendship. He was tall like his sister, with the same brown eyes and sun-bleached blond hair. "My ladies and lords!" he cried, then noticed we were still mounted. "Someone please take their horses!" he called to the crowd gathered. Haleth, the boy that had taken Windfola, returned and came to me.

"I can take your mount, milady," he said in a child's lisp. He seemed no more than eight, if even that.

"Thank-you, Haleth," I said, dismounting with a relieved sigh.

His eyes widened—I suppose he had forgotten that Lady Éowyn had addressed him by his name. As he left, leading my mare, I heard him whisper to a friend about the uncanny mind-reading of the Elves.

Adar escorted me up the steps to the porch, where Éomer dispatched various man- and maid-servants to help us find the chambers he had prepared for us. A young lady named Weynia was assigned to help me. She was petite, slender, with flaming red hair and bright green eyes. She spoke with a slight lisp, and when I asked her about it she explained she had been raised in a village a little ways away. "The Dunharrowine speech varies a little," she said.

My chambers included a sleeping apartment, a room with a large tub filled with warm water for my enjoyment, a small closet where my bags could be placed, and a door into the similar chambers where Lambë and her husband were staying. After I had bathed and dressed myself, Weynia told me that a meal had been prepared for us. Combing my wet hair into a braid out of my way, I followered her to the main hall.

The meal turned out to be a savory venison stew, flat bread, ale and wine, served on tin platters and eaten with rough utensils formed from iron. It seemed a crude way of eating, but I—and those in my company—said nothing. The food itself was delicious; I had not tasted anything so filling and wholesome in in my life. As I stood to return to my chamber, I commented this to King Éomer.

He laughed. "I will tell Chänna what you said; she loves to be flattered." Then he solemned somewhat, and said, "Lady Arwen, you know not what an honour it is to me to have you and your attendants dwell in my house. If you want for anything while in the care of the Rohirrim, just ask, and it will be done."

"I thank you, milord," I said, dropping him a low courtesy. "But did you not have a sister? I had heard…" I paused, uncertain.

"I do: the Lady Éowyn. She was not feeling well this evening and so desired to remain in her chambers. She has recently become affianced to the Lord Faramir, Steward and Prince of the City of Gondor."

I nodded, willing myself not to ask anymore questions. I could have interrogated him on this woman for quite some time. "Thank-you for your generosity to me, milord. I will retire now."

I turned away, calling Weynia to guide me back.


	29. Arwen in Edoras: Eowyn

**Chapter XIV: Arwen In Edoras**

**14 June, 3019**

I had been out for a ride on Windfola, reblazing the trails I'd ridden on since I was a child. I didn't see the travellers until I had galloped into the courtyard. I stopped short, knowing this must be Aragorn's betrothed.

Here. In my home.

I raised an eyebrow, appraising her. She stood straight on her white mare, clad in a silver-white dress and grey cloak. Her hair was a deep brown, almost black; it had been well-cared for; for it hung thick and shiny down her back. She met my gaze with a demure glance—her eyes were grey—blue-grey, like the sky on a partly-cloudy day.

Gathering myself, I slid off of Windfola, and asked Haleth to take him to the stables for me. Then I looked over her party, conjuring up an image of myself and placing it next to her. It was no wonder Aragorn had rejected me when he held the love of a lady so beautiful. I was tanned and harsh, while her pale skin seemed almost to have a luminescent quality to it, and her cheeks had just the faintest rose tint. I was rough and coarse next to her tenderness and elegance. She was beautiful.

I ran inside and found Éomer on his way out to greet them. "What are they doing here?" I asked.

"I told you," he sighed. "The Lady Arwen, Aragorn's fiancee, is en route to Gondor, and is spending a day here."

It was true; he had told me. I had forgotten.

"Come, sister," he said. "Let us greet them!"

"No…" I choked, casting around for an excuse. "I am too unkempt… tell them I am unwell. I will remain in my chambers until tomorrow."

He gave me a strange look, then nodded. "As you would have it, sister."

I left him staring after me. Weynia brought me dinner in my apartments, bubbling over with tales of Arwen—how she looked, how she spoke, what she was like. I obtained knowledge of where she would be staying, and that night, after everyone was asleep, I crept into her chambers. I wanted to see this Elven beauty up close, to see if it was only from a distance that she was beautiful.

She was even more lovely. Her skin was flawless, in uncomfortable contrast to my roughened cheeks. Her hair had strands of copper and gold in it, which the moonlight turned silver. She looked like a marble statue come to life.

Her head tossed in her sleep, and her eyes underneath their pale shields rolled a little. I sensed she was about to wake up and tiptoed back to my room. I had seen the Lady of Imladris, and I hated her even more now.


	30. Some Must Learn To Be Lonely: Arwen

Chapter XV: Some Must Learn To Be Lonely

**Chapter XV: Some Must Learn To Be Lonely**

**14 June, 3019**

Once in my chambers, I began preparing for bed. Lambë helped me unlace my ornate travelling gown and slip into a thin night shift. The day had been a long one, filled with tedious riding over sightless landscape, and the warm, welcoming blankets were much appreciated.

I slept hard until I thought I heard footsteps in the hall. I lay awake, eyes still closed, wondering if I was dreaming. I shifted to a more comfortable position, and then I heard footsteps receding from my chambers.

I sat up in the dark. I heard nothing. It must have been my imagination.

I lay back and returned to sleeping…

"Arwen…" Someone was calling my name in a whisper.

"What is it?" I sat up in bed. Adar stood over me. "Ada?"

"Arwen, is time."

"What?"

"The ships sail for Valinor even as we speak… there is not much time."

"I have made my choice!"

"You cannot stay."

"I must!" I said in a loud tone.

"You will stay and you will die. There is nothing else for you."

"There are my children," I said, and he flinched. "You claim to know my future… haven't you seen them? My darling Wilwarin, Eldarion, Filit… How can you say there is only death when there is so much life?"

He paused. "You will not be swayed." It was a statement, not a question.

"Never." I spoke with sixty years of conviction.

"I am glad," he said.

"What?" I gasped.

"Much as it pains me to see you go, the pain is lessened by the knowledge that you cannot be swayed… can never be brought to regret your rejection of Valinor."

"Be comforted, then," I whispered. "For I seen and faced the final end, and there is more beyond the circles of this world than any Elven song has ever hinted at."

"I am glad for you, daughter."

He sat on the side of the bed and embraced me. I began to weep, and knew he was crying as well. He slowly eased me back…

"Ada?" I sat up. "Ada?"

No one was there; my room was empty. Was Adar's visit a dream? To this day, I know not. Tears were running down my face, but I had woken up crying before. Who knows? I never spoke with Adar about it, and I do not know.

The next day, Éowyn sat with us at table. She was silent, though her brother tried to draw her into conversation. After breakfast, Éomer said, "Master Celebgil, would you honour our people with a song?"

"Of course," he said, calling for his harp.

In the centre of the room, sitting next to a fire pit, he began to gently strum the harp…like a lullaby. As he always did, he sought the eyes of his audience—we sat around him in a circle, staring at him. To our surprise, his gaze remained stationary on Éowyn, who alone stood to the back of the room. "This song is in the Common Tongue, for those who do not understand Elvish," he murmured before he began to sing.

_24__ Child of the wilderness  
Born into emptiness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to find your way in darkness_

_Who will be there for you  
Comfort and care for you  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to be your one companion_

_Never dreamed out in the world  
There are arms to hold you  
You've always known  
Your heart was on its own_

_So laugh in your loneliness  
Child of the wilderness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn how to love  
Life that is lived alone_

_Learn to be lonely  
Life can lived  
Life can be loved  
Alone._

I watched Éowyn's face change as she listened. Celebgil's voice was beautiful, but the adoration in her eyes seemed more than merited. Yet… looking closer, I saw it was not adoration, but understanding. Something in her heart had somehow appreciated the feeling behind Celebgil's words… the silent bitterness that haunted his every song. She dropped her head, and I am certain I saw a tear as the final verse finished.

_Learn to be lonely  
Life can lived  
Life can be loved  
Alone._

We left Rohan early the next day before the Sun had risen. The hills in the East were lined with gold. On the nearer hills I could see the shadow outlines of blades of grass—even a slight mist in the distance that was the Forest of Fangorn. Were it not for my grandfather's antipathy towards the forest, I would have paused my journey to revel in the only trees I had seen in too many days.

I tried to enjoy being close to Adar, my grandparents, and many others who were dear to me and loved me—but all I could think of was drawing closer and closer to Aragorn my beloved… until we would at last be so close, we could not get nearer to one another.

And yet… these would be my last few times with these people… _my_ people. I would soon no longer be of their kind.

Galadriel, riding beside me for this stretch, saw my tangled thoughts and smiled. "You should be joyful, Indyo," she said. "The time for grieving will come; and when it does, you will grieve the better for it for having been joyful."

So I allowed my thoughts to run free, conjuring up images of my dearest one's face… the warmth of his arms… his voice… his arms holding me. And our wedding. When our dreams would finally come true. When I would finally have made the choice. When there would be no more urges to turn back. When I would be wholly his, and he wholly mine.

The journey moved quicker for my imaginings, and we crossed much ground that day.

24. LEARN TO BE LONELY by Andrew Lloyd Webber; from the credits of the Joel Shumacher / Really Useful Company film _The Phantom of the Opera._ Due to be replaced whenever I find or write a song of equal power.


	31. The Cycle: Eowyn

Chapter XV: "The Cycle"

**Chapter XV: "The Cycle"**

**16 June, 3019**

Éomer was an idiot to ask that Elf to play. Celebgil had been watching me all through the meal with the obnoxious expression of someone who knows much more than he would like to tell. Every time I met his brilliant green eyes—as green as the grass on the hills outside Edoras—they would glitter impishly… yet there was an underlying tang to him. It took me until the first chords of his song played to realise what that was, and why it looked so familiar… it was cynicism, bitterness. It explained why, even with our many differences, every time our eyes met, I felt strangely like I was looking into a mirror… and seeing my reflection.

His song was the story of his life, or so I gathered from his tone while singing it. The words were such that, sung in a tender way, they could have conveyed sympathy or pathos for the subject; his rancid bitterness made it a sarcastic statement. I felt myself blushing, for when had I given him permission to voice my thoughts in the dark days to a crowd in my own home?

I stood in the back of the room, conscious that Arwen kept turning to look at me. What did she see? What did she know? I wondered.

Her escort left at last—the next day, early in the morning; I wasn't awake yet. I wanted to revel in the peace, but Éomer only waited a day to gather preparations for our journey. And the day after they left, we too set out for Gondor. This time, Weynia and Hilandia accompanied us—the former distressed at being torn away from her Rider—Aldor son of Brea. Éomer had no love left for her—his had been a passing thing—and so there was no—or at least very little—bitterness between them. He even ordered Aldor to be in charge of "keeping an eye on his sister's party"—though I was probably a better defence against would-be predators than Master Mooning-Over-My-Maidservant.

Continuing in this way, it was not twenty-four hours before Aldor had requested the hand of Weynia Wéonsil's daughter in marriage; Weynia asked for time think it over. She then came wailing to my tent, weeping that she feared that if she married him, her love might cool… as it had for many other unfortunate Rohirrim men.

Sick of her making such a big melodramatic production, I assured her that if she truly loved Aldor—"I do, I do!" she insisted—that her love would never cool, and that she and Allor—"_Aldor_."—would live happily ever after, and have tons of little redheaded Rohirrim babies. She took my advice to heart—if she had one beneath the flirtatious nonsense—and gave Aldor her acceptance the next day.

I was silent after giving this piece of advice—if it could be called that, as I had only said what was on the top of my head to get her away from me. I had had only a part left of my heart to give to Faramir when he asked for it. Théodred had taken a piece of it to the land of the dead—Théoden, whose painful death repeated itself in my nightmares—my father, who first taught me what hate was—Gríma, who had only cemented the knowledge of fear and bitterness—Aragorn, who had rejected my love.

I did not have a whole heart anymore to give to anyone. Faramir told me he had never loved anyone but his brother and his father—he had his complete ardour to give me. All I had were shards of what was left. How could he want me?

_It is enough that he does want me, and I truly love him_, I told myself, trying to shrug off the stigma and pain. _If I am broken, it does not matter. I can give him what is left… it is all I have to give._

The journey was slow; Hilandia's endless chatter about her daughter's potential marriage did not improve anything. Only four days into the trip, I finally shouted at her: "For the sake of your dead husband rotting in his grave, _SHUT UP!_"

Amazingly, she did so; she even included a mumbled apology.

We could see the White City ahead of us in the distance when we made camp the eleventh day. I was not eager to travel to see Aragorn wed to that goddess, but the thought of being with Faramir once more sent gleeful butterflies dancing in my stomach. And yet bitterness for Aragorn. I loved him no longer, yet there was still the healing scar of pain that sometimes tinged on hate. He had hurt me. Just as my father had hurt me, and I hated him for it. Just as Gríma had hurt me, and I hated him.

What else is there for us to do? These thoughts and more ran through my mind. We can only hate those that hurt us—and try to hurt them in return—and they hurt us again—and it goes on and on, a never-ending cycle of burning hate and sullen misery that began with the world and will pass away with it. There is no other way to live. There never has been. And there never will be.


	32. Welcome the Queen!: Arwen

Chapter XVI: Welcome The Queen

**Chapter XVI: Welcome The Queen!**

**24 June, 3019**

The newly repaired gates swung open with a crash to let us pass. Inside, thousands of people were waiting for our arrival. The Sun above seemed to shine with all the joy that was in our hearts.

When they saw me, they broke into a spontaneous song.

_Mara omentië i-Tari!__25__  
Callomma motalë andavë  
Ar sin tollen i-lu na  
Harya nisarya!_

Mara omentië i-Tari!  
Tarlya si  
Nir pëurya na  
Meldarya

Mara omentië i-Tari!  
Yello esserya na i-vaiwa  
San i-ambar serlë  
Tarlya na tul!

I do not know if this song went on any more, for at that moment, Aragorn emerged from the crowd, and all faded the silence in my head. People saw the purpose in his eyes, and parted for him, clearing a path from him to me.

Adar dismounted as I waited, my heart pounding… and pounding… and pounding. He handed the sceptre to Aragorn, and then turned to me. His eyes were glad, yet there were tears in them—tears I could not see. Silent, invisible tears were pouring out of him. Adar was hurting. He seemed to be calm and composed, but I could see that inside he was screaming.

Calloused as it may sound, my heart hurt only an instant for him, for as he helped me to dismount, I caught sight again of Aragorn's face, and it sent me soaring.

In a moment of utter silence, he put my hand in Aragorn's. Aragorn slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. Tenderly, he raised the veil from my face and stared into my eyes. A tear of joy made its way down his cheek.

I leaned up and kissed him full on the mouth. "I've missed you so!" I whispered into his chin.

"And I you," he murmured.

The crowd broke into cheering and more songs as Aragorn led me to the High City, where we were to be married.

I had never felt so beautiful in my life—A half-mile from Gondor, we had halted and set up a pavilion, where I changed from my riding clothes into my wedding gown. Lambë had released my hair from its convenient braid and put the gossamer silk veil over my head. And I had emerged from the tent the happiest woman in Middle-Earth.

Just as we entered the High Gates of the City, I turned to look once more upon my beloved Adar. His expression threw a temporary blight on my bliss—thinking no one was watching, he had allowed his whole face to contort in his agonising pain.

25. Welcome the Queen!  
Our hero has toiled long  
And now it is time to  
Have his reward

Welcome the Queen!  
Our King  
Presses his lips to  
His beloved

Welcome the Queen!  
Call out her name to the wind  
That the whole world may know  
Our queen is come!


	33. All That I Am: Eowyn

Chapter XVI: All That I Am

**Chapter XVI: All That I Am**

**18 July, 3019**

We reached the City a full eighteen days after the Lady Arwen had been wed to Aragorn, and the people still were celebrating and rejoicing in the streets. Someone had written some three-verse ditty in honour of the Queen, and from the time it took for our company to travel from the Gates to Merethrond, the Great Hall Of Feasts, I had heard it in full so many times I could have sung it backwards.

We were welcomed into the hall—which was already full of feasting guests—with a shout of greeting and raised glasses. Faramir saw me and rushed across the room to take me in his arms. "I have missed you!" he whispered, leading me to our table, a little below the one reserved for the King and Queen.

"And I you, my dearest one," I said, taking my seat.

Then from behind a tapestry drawn across a doorway emerged the King and Queen. I drew in a breath. Aragorn and Arwen together seemed to give off a radiant light. Even as Aragorn greeted my brother warmly, as well as others of our company, his eyes travelled to his wife, who had sat in her chair at the table.

Arwen was now dressed in a rich green velvet gown with golden trimmings, and her hair was pulled back in the style of the Gondorian women. While this had made me look something like a long-necked horse, on her it was elegant and graceful. I noted with chagrin the ring on her finger; it was gold and silver wound together in a plait.

Aragorn came to my table to wish me a hearty welcome. I icily stood and made him a courtesy in response to his bow. He passed on, nodding politely, and sat beside his beloved.

Faramir began to tell me all of what had passed in my absence. I tried to pay attention, but my mind began to wander… wondering how much his probing glances were telling him. Did they say, _She is not a whole woman… she has nothing to offer you_?

"_Éowyn?_" Faramir sounded as if he had been trying to get my attention for some time.

"Hm—what?" My eyes focused slowly on the man sitting across the table from me.

"You are not listening." He seemed sad, though his words were not ones of sorrow.

"I'm… sorry," I said, fumbling for an excuse. "I am—tired from the journey. I should go to bed—"

I would have stood and gone to my chambers, but Faramir held up a hand. "You are not tired," he said very calmly, "And I don't want you to go to bed just now. Please, Éowyn. I want to know what is troubling you… though"—he sighed—"I think I know."

I stood, in spite of his gentle command. "I am not hungry anymore, Faramir. We can talk tomorrow—I am sorry company tonight."

He stood as well, and leaned very close to my ear. "I will give you no time to carefully construct the walls I only lately finished destroying. I insist on talking to you now, while your emotions are defenceless. You have eaten nothing, my sweet one. And you are not tired. I wish to speak to you. Can you not suffer my company for a quarter-hour? I will not keep you longer against your will."

"Very well," I sighed. "Let us go into the garden where we can be alone."

Now you must know, if you know anything of the lands of Middle-Earth, that there is a courtyard where there grows a White Tree, which is the symbol of Gondor. For many years, this tree was dead and barren, but with the return of the King, a sapling high in the mountains was found and brought here to grow. And it was here that Faramir and I walked and talked.

"If I see correctly," he began, "You are troubled because of the new Queen."

I nodded, examining my feet.

"You see him in his glory, and it hurts you, for you have not withdrawn all feelings for him, have you?"

I was silent.

"Have you?" he repeated, coming round to face me. I looked up.

"No, Faramir."

"Do you love him yet, when you said on the walls that you no longer desired to be a queen?"

"No, Faramir. I do not love him. I despise him, as he once despised me."

"May I ask why you despise him?" His expressive brown eyes were troubled.

"I have nothing left!" I spat, then was surprised. I had not intended to speak the thought that permeated every part of me.

"Milady?"

"Gríma never claimed my honour, true. But he tried… oh, he tried. Théodred forced me to prostitute my true feelings to avoid hurting him. And Aragorn… he was the worst." I blinked tears, remembering the day in Dunharrow. Faramir had been told all, and he, too, had moistened eyes.

"But I do not understand why you hate him. Had he betrayed his betrothed after all their years of engagement, you would have hated him—even as he lay beside you—for the lack of honour in one you esteemed high and noble."

"Don't you see?" I asked him, my voice taking on a deranged tone. "Don't you see?" It was now a maniacal scream. "In body… they never touched me. But three men have ravished my soul—and I can never be wholly yours!"

I wanted to tell him what was in my heart. I wanted him to know the feelings that had no words to describe them. I wanted him to know how very much I wanted to belong to him in heart, soul, mind and body. I wanted him to understand me. Tears of frustration rolled down my cheeks.

Faramir put his hand on my shoulder to attempt to calm me. I looked straight into his eyes. "You hate them," he stated. "I do not know Théodred or Gríma, save by your telling." He sighed. "You are unjust, though, in speaking of Aragorn so."

I glared at him.

"You said he scorned you. He did not scorn you. He rejected your love because he was already betrothed to the Lady Arwen since before you and I walked this earth. Would you have had him desert her for you?"

I made no reply.

"He showed you kindness and pity—they were all he could offer you. He could not give you love. He never gave you reason to hate. And he saved your life."

"_He saved my life_," I repeated. "He saved my life, when all I wanted was to lose it. I went with the eored for no other reason. Why couldn't he see that, and let me die? I never wanted to wake. I wanted only to die."

"That I know," Faramir said. "But he saved you because he knew such as you are better off in the land of the living than walking in the Shadow-Lands."

"He went on the Paths of the Dead and returned," I said. "All I asked was to do the same—"

"—But not to return," we finished together.

Faramir continued. "You might have gone on the Paths of the Dead and returned. But you would not be his wife this day, whatever course you took."

"I wanted to die with him," I said. "I wanted to be the last woman he saw before he died. Instead it will be that Elven—" I lapsed into a few Rohirric oaths. Faramir put a hand over my mouth.

"Not here, Éowyn. Not here."

I nibbled the palm of his hand, and he jerked it away hurriedly. "But why didn't he let me die?"

Faramir smiled. "You think so little of me that you would rather have died than have met me?"

I shook my head. "I love you. But I have nothing left for you. I don't have my pride. I don't have my heart. I have nothing."

"I think your pride is still intact," Faramir chuckled, then grew solemn. "When I asked you to marry me, Éowyn," I only asked if you would love me and marry me. I only asked what you are, right now before me. I didn't ask for what you were, what you might have been. I asked—and still asked—for the White Lady of Rohan. I ask you to give me all you are. Won't you give me that?"

I did not hesitate. _You understood_! my heart cried. _Even without the proper words, you understood!_

As I answered Faramir with my kiss under the starlight, a missing part of my heart was restored to me, sliding into its place; and I became a little more my own.


	34. For All Time: Arwen

Chapter XVII: For All Time

**Chapter XVII: For All Time**

**Midsummer, 3019**

We were married. At last. The thought managed to permeate the daze that clung to me. It was done. I was Aragorn's wife, and there was no turning back. I had become mortal, and I would die.

There was to be feasting and dancing for days afterward. That did not matter right now. Right now, Aragorn and I were one.

We had finally managed to escape the guests at the banquet in our honour—who I knew according to custom would politely pretend not to notice our absence, or pretend they knew not for what purpose.

Alone in the king's chamber, all was silent. Servants had lit a fire in the fireplace so that the entire room was warmed. The floor was covered with thick rugs; my feet sank into them when I slipped off my shoes.

I did not have to worry about whether final victory would come before my beloved was old and grey. I did not ever have to wake up in an empty bed again. I would never cross the Seas, to be left alone with my antiquated memories and might-have-beens. I would always be with him until the ending of the age. Until we died together. I had seen it in Galadriel's mirror, and now I knew that it would be as hard as my brethren said. Yet the Valar would give me strength.

And Aragorn! Aragorn would never wonder where I was and what I was doing across the Sea. He would never realise that he had once held the treasure of the Elves in his hand—and like sand from the Valinorian beaches, she had slipped through his fingers. He would never ever ever ever ever have to worry that I feared to die. He would have me and hold me always—until death and beyond.

We vowed that night never to leave one another until the last, bitter—though temporary—parting. I shuddered to think that I had ever considered leaving him forever. I had almost lost him forever. I did not want eternality. I renounced it full and completely that night in Aragorn's arms. For all time.


	35. Going Home: Eowyn

Chapter XVII: Going Home

**Chapter XVII: Going Home**

**19 July, 3019**

The next day, we prepared to return to Rohan for Théoden's funeral. Éomer and Aragorn went to the tombs in Rath Dínen where the former King of Rohan had been laid, and returned to the City of the Living bearing Théoden between them on a golden bier, walking in silence.

Our men of Rohan laid him on a great wain. The eored that had accompanied us to Minas Tirith now gather around him. The flag of Rohan--the white horse on a green field--went before us, leading the way, followed by Éomer, the King of Gondor, and his Elven bride. I chose to ride towards the back with my fiance and the rest of the nobles.

The Rohirrim were not the only ones accompanying us back. The King and Queen of Gondor; her father Elrond Half-Elven and his sons, Elladan and Elrohir; Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood and their folk; the Prince Imrahil, all of these were travelling back with us--the people of the Golden Wood and of Rivendell because Edoras was only a little out of their way home.

On the journey, we did what we could to speed it. The mood was sombre, and so we sang dirges and laments of our kind. "_Bealocwealm_" was a song in high demand. Tears were shed, my own among them.

The queen occasionally turned from her place at the ehad of the line to regard those who followed her. I wondered what she thought of our people--homespun wool-wearing horsemen and women, a sharp contrast to her people of silken silvery greys. Fair-complected were we not, neither were they suntanned and freckled with rough hands and cheeks.

The first night of travel, Faramir and I--who, yes, were still in separate tents--snuck away from the main encampment to a small depression in a hill. We spent the night talking like we had those first few days in the Houses of Healing. No detail of my life or his life did we leave untouched; no past emotion did we not explore. I learned of the time his father had left him home and took Boromir on a patrol; he learned of the time I last saw my father alive.

When we had finished, the sky was turning the eerie grey of dawn. As we crept back to our tents, I was confident that yet another part of my heart had been reclaimed. We were tired all that day, but it was all right… a night's sleep on the ground was a fair sacrifice for time spent with the man I loved.


	36. Our Beginning: Arwen

Chapter XVIII: Our Beginning

**Chapter XVIII: Our Beginning**

**18 July, 3019**

Éowyn must have been at the banquet; I must have seen her. But I cannot remember it. The feasts melted into one another as the City rejoiced at our union and Aragorn's coronation, and the eighteenth of these—when the Eorlingas returned to Gondor—has no distinction from the others.

All I can remember of that blissful time is that Aragorn was there. No other faces stand out in my memory; nothing happened of note that did not involve my loved one. All I remember was that we were together.

No, I do not remember seeing her. But I remember remembering having seen her. Alone with Aragorn in the King's chambers, as I eased the forest green and gold dress off my shoulders, let down my hair from its braided knot, and folded the headpiece for the next day, I was thinking of the golden-haired fiancee of Lord Faramir. Faramir and I had had occasions—few and far between—to talk, and he seemed outrageously enamoured of his northern betrothed. I remember wondering if the feelings were returned.

That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling while my husband snored beside me in bed. The next morning, as Lambë laced up the back of my gown, Aragorn asked, "Arwen, meleth-nin, was something bothering you last night?"

I shook my head slowly, still deep in thought—and a little tired from my sleepless night. "Too much chocolate last night," I replied. "I couldn't get to sleep."

My tone was curt, but Aragorn chose to ignore it. He nodded, finished tying the laces on the neck of his tunic, and left.

I began to prepare for another journey—back to Rohan for the funeral of the previous King of Rohan. He had died in our battlefield, fighting for our cause, and, in a way, for Aragorn and I. I owed him honour and respect. I packed dark-shaded gowns and cloaks, along with thin clothing for the nights. I knew by experience that they could be very warm.

We left the next day. Riding across the barren fields of Rohan with my husband at my side was completely different from riding across the barren fields of Rohan with a large company. Together we talked of our future together; sang along to songs that the grieving citizens of Rohan composed. And the scenery flew by, as we travelled under the warm sun together.


	37. Wish Me Joy: Eowyn

Chapter XVIII: "Wish Me Joy"

**Chapter XVIII: "Wish Me Joy"**

**07 August, 3019**

We were finally back in Edoras. Éomer saw to it that the Golden Hall was filled with light as never before—not a door nor a window that could be opened was shut; and a blazing fire threw golden illumination everywhere. It caught in my hair, making it as red as Weynia's; in Hilandia's hair, making the grey disappear. But in Arwen's hair, it gave her dark hair a chestnut shimmer, and she seemed even lovelier.

But everyone seemed better—lovelier—more wonderful than ever before. Perhaps it was seeing so many I cared for in my own home; perhaps it was the relief of the war's tension.

We went to the mounds, where we placed Théoden in one of the barrows. The Riders rode around the mound in formation—a curious, but ancient, tradition to honour fallen kings—while we sang a song of Gléowine's that he had written on the way home from Gondor. A portion went like this—

Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising  
He rode singing in the Sun, sword unsheathing  
Hope he rekindled and in hope ended;  
Over death, over dread, over doom lifted  
Out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.

It was undoubtedly Gléowine's finest, and a good ending tribute to the minstrel: he was not to write another; he died soon after.

Éomer, Meriadoc, and I stood at the foot of the mound—Faramir had offered to stand beside me as the body was taken into his final resting place, but I had told him in no uncertain terms that no man that had not known my King was welcome to comfort me. "Some griefs must be shared to understood," I had said… and if he had not understood my loss, he understood what I meant.

My brother and Meriadoc had tears running down their cheeks in torrents, but I was shaking with the vigour of my grief. It was not what I had had that I regretted—what I had not had. If Théoden had lived, who knows what we might have shared? With his acceptance that I was as equally deserving of his affection as Éomer, I might have gone on to become second marshal—under my brother, who of course would have been first—and live in Rohan with my husband.

Yet all I had were bittersweet memories of years of servitude—repaid with a brief month of love.

The song ended on a low note. Filling the silence that threatened to fill the plains, Meriadoc cried: "Théoden King! Farewell! As a father you were to me, for a little while. Farewell!"

I laid my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at me. Our eyes met. _We feel the same pain, you and I_. The unspoken message in my eyes reflected in his.

Memories raced through my mind—and heart. I could hear my uncle's voice, every word he'd ever said to me.

"_And you, Éowyn—is all well with you?" "You are grieved, daughter." "And take comfort in this, daughter…" "Welcome Éowyn, sister-daughter." "Go, Éowyn, sister-daughter—the time for fear is past!" "You look like my mother, Morwen from Lossarnach—you have grown since you came." "—The time for fear is past!" "It is fit that you see my counsellor reckoned with." "—The time for fear is past!" "Farewell, sister-daughter! Yet maybe we shall return to the Golden Hall!"_

The time for fear is long past, my King.

Hilandia was loudly wailing, though Weynia and Aldor tried to muffle it. She held onto Chänna, who was also wailing. The two seemed to almost be attempting a doleful duet. Through all the pain, it was almost humorous.

They became silent when it was time to go inside for the feast. Faramir and I sat together at last, but we did not speak. I was still too choked with grief to attempt speech, and he did not dare.

When I received a prearranged signal from Háma, I stood and fetched a filled goblet and presented it to my brother, that we might drink to the memory of the kings. A minstrel and loremaster stood to recite their names:

_Eorl the Young_

_Brego Builder of the Hall_

_Aldor brother of Baldor the Hapless_

_Fr_é_a_

_Fr_é_awine_

_Goldwine_

_Déor_

_Gram_

_Helm that lay in in Helm's Deep_

_Fr_é_alaf, Helm's sister-son_

_Léofa_

_Walda_

_Folca_

_Folcwine_

_Fengel_

_Thengel_

_And last, Théoden_

With ever sip, Éomer toasted the ancient king. And at Théoden's name, he drained his cup. Standing beside him, I took the empty goblet and called to Hilandia and Weynia to fill every cup with wine, and all that were there rose and cried: "Hail, Éomer, King of the Mark!"

And thus the feast ended—or so I thought.

But then Éomer, who had taken his seat again, stood once more and said, "Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King, but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister. Hear then all of my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as never have been gathered in this Hall: Faramir, Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be troth-plighted before you all."

"Éomer!" A surprised grin formed on my lips. Those around me laughed merrily at my embarrassment.

Blushing, Faramir and I stood before the whole company. Éomer took my hand and presented it to Faramir, and cups were drunk in our honour. Then Faramir kissed me—the hand he had been given, then my cheek, and lastly my lips. This was met with applause. When we parted, Éomer said: "Thus is the friendship of the Mark and Gondor bound with a new bond, and the more do I rejoice."

As the company rose to toast us, Aragorn stepped forward. Clapping my brother of the back, he said, "No niggard are you to give thus to Gondor the fairest thing in your realm." Then he turned to me, and our eyes met. He was close to me—very close. But there was no tingle of girlish emotion, no surge of bitterness… just peace. I felt peace.

He was asking me with a piercing gaze, _Are you yet healed, Éowyn? _

I answered him in words. With a smile, I gently put a hand on his shoulder. "Wish me joy," I begged, "My liege-lord and healer!"

The smile on his face—barely more than a smirk—widened until I wondered the top of his face didn't fall off. His eyes shone with joy… and with tears too, I think. It was so from his very soul that I could not believe that I had once thought he'd despised me. "I have wished thee joy ever since I first saw thee on the steps of this House, Éowyn. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss."

If his face radiated joy, mine must have mirrored and reflected the same emotion. "Many thanks," I whispered, my voice catching on joyful tears of my own. He took my other hand and put it to his lips, then returned to his bride with a nod.

I turned to Faramir, who had witnessed the conversation. He caught me in an embrace that took my breath away. "Mine…" he whispered. "You're mine…"


	38. I Always Have: Arwen

Chapter XIX: "I Always Have"

**Chapter XIX: "I Always Have"**

**10 August, 3019**

As Éowyn wept for her kin and king, I wept for the brave Man that had died for our cause. I did mourn as she did, sobbing and shaking—a few tears coursed down my face, but was unable to feel the overwhelming sorrow that those around me felt.

I watched Meriadoc call his farewell to his king, and sympathised with his pain. Aragorn's arm around my shoulders tightened, and I looked up at him—he was weeping, too. "Estel," I whispered.

He looked down at me. "This man was noble; he died a glorious and honourable death in battle; and he is certainly worthy of all this mourning, meleth-nin."

I nodded. "I did not know him, but for all these—and yourself—to mourn so, he must have been very great."

"He was."

Later, we feasted, and again I tasted the delicious homemade flavour of Rohirric meals. This far exceeded the few I had had en route to Gondor; my mouth watered at the smells alone. At the close of the feast, King Éomer called for his sister and the Lord Faramir to be troth-plighted before us all. I studied her face, She had a peace about her that I had not seen before. She seemed whole, at last, as if some part of her that had been wanting had been fulfilled.

Aragorn whispered to me, "I must speak with her brother a moment."

He rose from his seat and went to Éomer. I watched as he spoke something to Éomer about being unselfish for giving such a fair thing to Gondor. Then he turned to Éomer. They stared at one another a moment, appraising one another, I thought. She put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes filled with a joy as she murmured something I could not catch.

Aragorn replied gently, smiling. He took her hand and kissed her fingertips; then nodded and returned to my side. She turned to her beloved, who had been standing behind-beside her through the exchange, and he enveloped her in an embrace that made me smile in sympathetic joy.

Aragorn took his seat beside me, and I asked, "What did you say to her?"

"She asked me to wish her joy," he told me. "I said that I always have."

I looked sideways at him. There were tears in his eyes, but a smile lit up his face. He was shining, just like Éowyn and her fiance. I wasn't sure what to say, so I simply nodded and returned to the goblet of wine with which I had been presented.


	39. Farewell To A Friend: Eowyn

Chapter XIX: Farewell To A Friend

**Chapter XIX: Farewell To A Friend**

**14 August, 3019**

Four days after the King had been laid in ground, the King of Gondor prepared to escort the four Halflings to their country. Also with him went the host of Elves that had accompanied the Lady Arwen, though she remained at Edoras. Faramir and Imrahil remained also.

When the company was about to leave, Éomer and I summoned Meriadoc to the Golden Hall for one last farewell. Éomer took his place in the throne of his forefathers; a smaller one, long put away for disuse, was brought for the King's sister--it was the throne of Queens, lighter, more delicate, wrought with gold and precious gems. Once it had sat my aunt, and before that my grandmother--now me.

Meriadoc stood before us, and I saw the tears in his eyes. We had formed a fond friendship during our time in the Houses… plus what companionship saving my life got us.

"Farewell now, Meriadoc of the Shire!" Éomer said.

Meriadoc bowed. "Thank-you."

"Ride to good fortune," I bade him, "And ride back soon to our welcome!"

He bowed again, blushing a little. "Thank-you."

"Kings of old would have laden you with gifts that a wain could not bear for your deeds on the Pelennor fields;" Éomer said, "And yet you will take nothing, you say, but the arms that were given you. This I suffer, for indeed I have no treasure that is worthy, but my sister begs you to receive this small thing as a memorial of Dernhelm and of the horns of the Mark at the coming of the morning."

I rose and handed my small saviour a horn--small and fit for a Halfling, and beautifully and intricately carved. I had gone over various heirlooms, trying to find something to express all my gratitude for what he had done, and at long last I had selected this.

"This is a treasure of our house," I told him. "It was made by the Dwarves; came from the hoard of Scatha the Worm; Eorl the young brought it from the North. He that blows it at need shall set fear into the hearts of his enemies and joy into the hearts of his friends, and they shall hear him and come to him."

He looked at it and was too overcome to speak. He kissed my hand and bowed once again. I smiled back him. I understood him.

"Thank-you… thank-you, milady," he said. Then he backed out of the room, clutching his gift and bowing.


	40. A Farewell Beyond Eternity: Arwen

Chapter XX: A Farewell Beyond Eternity

**Chapter XX: A Farewell Beyond Eternity**

**13 August, 3019**

Adar came for me that night. Aragorn—who was sleeping beside me—pretended to be asleep when Adar whispered, "Arwen… wake up!"

I took his hand, and we left the House. The guards either did not hear us or knew not to molest our passage; we made no sound walking silently to the stables. I took my mare, and Adar his stallion, and we rode into the hills. It was a short journey, for we urged our horses as swiftly as we were able; Adar led the way, and presently we came upon a wooded area… a very small grove of trees. Here we dismounted, and left the horses to stand or graze as they would.

In the very core of the trees, there was a small space where a brook flowed through, and in the centre of the brook, there was a large flat rock. "What is this place?" I asked, for at only half-a-night's ride from Edoras, I could not doubt that it was well frequented.

"Déorcoomb," he replied. "Few now come here, but once it was the trysting place of every young couple in Edoras."

I laughed at the image of the rock covered with embracing couples. "They had good judgement," I said.

He helped me jump across the small creek and onto the rock. Then he joined me, and we sat on the edge, our feet dangling in the water. I slipped off my shoes and set them beside me.

"This is truly farewell," I said musingly. "I have known it only once before, when I bade my mother farewell on the steps of Imladris. Would to the Valar it were the last."

"You know that this will not be the last," he said. "There is to be yet another parting."

"But that will not last forever," I replied. "Aragorn and I will meet again, beyond the circles of this world. And none shall come between us there. I have seen it, Ada."

"I, too, have seen it," he agreed. "And never will you leave my thoughts, no matter where in this world or the next that you are. I wish you joy, Tindomerel." He kissed my forehead.

"Hannaid," I said.

"Tell your husband that he has gained a star. And he has my forgiveness for the theft of your heart, though Valinor will be cold for lack of it."

"I will tell him. Thank-you for letting me go. Thank-you for letting _us_ be. Melye-ni26."

He put his arm around my shoulder. "Melye-ni, yando27, Tindomerel."

"Tell my mother that I am happy, though my heart looks back, and ever will, to my family in Valinor."

"I will tell her."

We sat there, silent in each other's arms, as moments ticked by, content to think our thoughts, knowing that this would be the last time we ever spent time together. I wondered about the future—what would happen when he was gone? I almost wished it were over, so the pain of looking forward could be replaced by the pain of looking backwards.

In due time, he rose and helped me to my feet and across the stream again. "We must go back, Tindomerel."

"As you say, Ada."

We mounted our horses—who had stayed outside the grove of trees, grazing on the crisp, dew-wet grass—and rose across the fields in silence. And the sun was rising when I finally took to my chambers for bed.

The next morning, Lambë helped me into a silver-white gown that was close fitting and sparkled in the sun. It fell low on my neck and shoulders, and combined with the silver strands Lambë braided into my hair, I became the fulfilment of a living Evenstar.

I saw the company off—Galadriel took me aside as horses were saddled and luggage loaded into the small cart. Adar and Celeborn waited in a small alcove off of the Golden Hall. And so were the three Elven Ring-Bearers brought together.

Celeborn took my hand and pressed it to my lips before pulling me into a tight one-armed embrace. "Namarie, dearer than daughter!" he said. I pressed my cheek to his. As I closed my eyes, my lashes brushed his face, and I felt him smile.

"I love you, Grandfather," I whispered into his ear.

He brought his other hand behind my head, and ran it through my hair. "Such beautiful tresses," he said. "Valinor will be the less beautiful for their lack."

"And Middle-Earth the more," Adar whispered. Galadriel murmured assent.

I pulled away. "Namarie, Grandfather."

Celeborn bowed and relinquished my hand. I turned to Galadriel. "Namarie, Indyo!" she said. "Remember well your vision in the pool."

"How could I ever forget it?" I asked, feeling tears begin. This—this seemed surrealistically impossible. This couldn't be the last time I would ever see them—I would wake up tomorrow and there they would be. Right?

"Easier than you think," she smiled a little. "Just don't forget it."

"I'll miss you so much," I wept, putting my arms around her and holding her to me. She felt almost frail in my arms—she was so thin. So much taller than me, her head rested in my hair.

"And I will miss you, Indyo," she told me.

"I love you so much…"

"I love you."

We parted, and my grandparents discreetly left Adar and I alone in the alcove.

"Well," I said, realising that we had come to the end of our time. "Here we are."

"Arwen…" In Adar's eyes I was reading all there were no words to say … how beautiful and grown-up he thought me… how I was still his tiny Tindomerel, playing in the garden with my brothers. How much he loved me… how he would miss me in Valinor, and yet… how he knew I was doing the right thing in staying with my beloved.

"Ada…" I wanted to tell him how I felt his pain… how I wanted to see my mother again… how I wished there was a way I could have the best of both worlds—my family, and my love. How it wasn't fair that I could never see him again. How I loved him. How I loved him.

He pulled me close, and I buried my head in his neck, sobbing. "Arwen… be comforted, child." I felt his thoughts… _Arwen, be happy with him. We love you. I love you. Your mother loves you. How did the time slip by like this? How did this come to pass? Why must I lose you?_

"Ada… Ada… Ada…" I wept bitterly. _I love you. I love you. It all went so fast. Can it really have been an age that we have been together? I wish we had more time._

"Adar-nin?" There was Aragorn at the entrance to the alcove. "It's time to leave here."

I raised a tear-streaked face to meet Adar's eyes. "Namarie, Ada," I said. The world seemed to be spinning with finality. I wondered how last night I could have wished it would end; now I only wanted one more moment in Adar's arms.

"Namarie, my daughter," he whispered, and I realised he was weeping too.

Aragorn took my hand as I allowed Adar to pull away from me. "I'll ride with the Hobbits seven days," he told me. "I should be home in fourteen days. I promise."

"I'll be waiting."

I stood on the front porch watching them as they mounted their horses and rode away… the strong shapes fading into tiny specks on the vast fields. Tears ran down my cheeks as I imagined my life without a family… without reminders of my heritage… of where I had come from.

The fields made me feel so small… they expanded so far, and at their edges faint purple mountains could be seen. I no longer considered the Rohirrim countryside barren and sparse… from this view-point it was beautiful and wild.

Just like the people. Roughened, perhaps. Beaten a little by the battles they had faced, perhaps. But deep in their eyes you saw their wildness… and their incredible beauty of spirit.

A hand on my shoulder roused me from my reverie. I turned. It was Éowyn, holding a glass of wine. "Milady… I thought perhaps you could use this. You look very worn." These were the first words she had ever spoken to me.

I took it from her hand and sipped gratefully. "Thank-you." My first words to her. Would our exchange go down in history as the first few words passed between The Queen of Gondor and the Princess of Ithilien? But she wasn't, yet, I corrected myself.

"I love the view from here," she said carefully. "It's so beautiful."

"Aye," I agreed. "Your land is very lovely."

"Oh, isn't it?" she said with a passion that surprised both of us.

I finished the cup and held it in my hand awkwardly.

She saw it. "I'll take that," she said, lifting it from my hand and walking away hurriedly.

The next fourteen days passed slowly. Éowyn was kind to me—on the days I showed my face—but for the most part I stayed in my compartments, weeping and sleeping by turns. On the night of the fourteenth, Aragorn returned. I had been napping on the bed when he came in and took me in his arms. "Indonya…" he whispered, kissing me.

I woke up and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Estel!"

A tear fell down my cheek as we held one another.

"I will miss him," I said sadly. There was no need to identify _him_.

"Take heart, beloved," he said. "We will return to the White City with the Princes of Ithilien and Amroth, and all our company…"

"Aye," I started to laugh. "And we will live happily ever after."

26. Melye-ni: I love you

27. Yando: Also


	41. Immortal Sacrifice: Eowyn

Chapter XX: Immortal Sacrifice

**Chapter XX: Immortal Sacrifice**

**14 August, 3019**

I did not understand the Queen's pain at first. I had been out for a early morning ride and had just finished putting Windfola when the Lord of Rivendell and his daughter came riding back. I had noticed their missing horses, but attributed it to similar desires as mine. But as I stood in a corner of the tack room, watching them lovingly put away their horses, I was struck at the emotional agony they both seemed to be in. Arwen's lovely face was streaked with tears--so blinded was she that as she stumblingly hung her tack on a hook, she never noticed me.

I made sure I was out of the room before Elrond put his away… I doubted that his senses would be so dulled that I would escape his notice. And this old yet so young man put my defences up--for no specific reason other than that he seemed not unlike Aragorn… from all appearances, he seemed my age or even younger--until you looked into his eyes. And those green wells seemed so ancient, I would not have doubted that he had sprung out of the ground even before Eorl walked these lands… and perhaps he had. With Elves, who knew?

But I was very confused by this woman's composure. Surely saying farewell to her family would not be so heart-breaking--true, they were many miles away, but the roads were quickly becoming safer, and travel was certainly not impossible.

I brought the question up to Faramir the next day as we ate an early breakfast before the rest departed. He looked at me quizzically. "Dearest, know you _nothing_ of Elfkind?"

I shook my head. "They are eternal; their women steal the hearts of many men; they are the fairest beings on this earth. Other than that…"

"It is true," he said, "That Elves are the fairest beings on this earth; they are not _of_ this earth. Elves come from a land across the Sea called Valinor, and there many more Elves yet dwell. It was in rebellion that a party first crossed the sea; the Lady Galadriel among them. And it is granted to all Elfkind that when they weary of their days, they may return again to the land where their kind first began to be."

"And the Queen is weeping at this parting?"

"Mortals and immortals may not wed or live as wedded ones--for an immortal to cleave to an immortal, they must forsake their right to Valinor. Arwen knows that her people will soon leave for the Shores or Valinor… and she has rejected her place there. Her parting now is forever; there is no going back."

I looked down at my cornbread and gravy, overwhelmed with pity for this Queen that had forsaken her people and loved ones… all for one man's love. "She must truly love Estel," I said in a low tone.

"It takes great devotion to compensate such a sacrifice," Faramir agreed.

The company left hardly an hour later. I shook the hands of the Hobbits; I did too many courtesies before the Lords of Rivendell and Lothlorien… and the Lady Galadriel. Celebgil insisted on dismounting his grey palfrey and kissing my fingertips. "You have a beautiful voice, milord," I told him. "I have been treated to many fine singers, and I have never heard one such as you."

"It comes from the heart," he said with a twisted smile. "And that makes all the difference."

I nodded slowly, not understanding his words, and did my best to pass on quickly. There were few left to bid farewell, and I soon found myself standing at the doorway to Meduseld. Arwen stood on the porch, in the place I loved to stand, looking out as her people left. I was unable to completely understand the bitter agony she must be feeling--I missed all the loved ones I had lost, for sure, but I had not willingly killed them. And yet she stood on the porch, knowing that as they faded from her view, they would cease to be in her memory after a time, and there would be no renewing of remembrance, no second chance for her.

It was when I saw her lift her sleeve to wipe away tears--and saw the dark spots they made on the earth as they fell--that I was besieged with compassion for this tragic queen. I whispered a few words to Hilandia--who was standing a little behind me, also watching their departure--and she left, then returned momentarily with a goblet of wine. I took it from her, stepped forward, and touched Arwen's sleeve.

She turned to me, and I said, hurriedly, "Milady… I thought perhaps you could use this. You look very worn."

She smiled gratefully--her eyes when full of tears were blue as the sky, and her smile brightened them. "Thank-you." Her voice was flavoured with a quiet accent… I couldn't place it, but assumed it must be some form of Elvish. A low voice, a cool voice; but not a cold voice.

There was silence as she put it to her lips and drank. She seemed very thirsty. To fill the silence, I looked out where she had been looking. The company had long since vanished; there was only the empty fields: grasses swaying in the wind, and the faint line of mountains beyond that. "I love the view from here," I said slowly. "It's so beautiful."

She looked up from the cup. "Aye," she replied. "Your land is very lovely."

"Oh, isn't it?" I said eagerly. _Too loud!_ My voice seemed to echo against the hills I always spoke too loud when I was nervous.

She tilted the goblet back to catch the last drops, then stared at it, unsure what do with it. Eager to seize an excuse to leave this uncomfortable scene, I took it from her hand. "I'll take that," I said, making my escape towards the kitchen.


	42. What Happened After: Arwen

Chapter XXI: What Happened After…

**Chapter XXI: What Happened After…**

**Summer, 3069**

My brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, did not leave when The Ringbearers did. Half and a quarter century passed as they assisted Aragorn and I in establishing and then running our kingdom. Elves do not conceive as swiftly and easily as humans; I had not been with child all of fifty years—which, yes, caused many tongues in the City to wag. My husband did not choose to discuss to Elves' reproduction cycles with every member of the City, and so I heard second-hand things like, _"He'll die in battle with the Southerners, and where will we be?" "Back under the Steward again, I guess." "Then one of Éowyn's will be next ruler."_

I finally conceived a child, and the City rejoiced. Popular rumour called it a boy; no one believed my brothers or myself when we said it was a girl. The children of Elrond The Healer could tell the gender of a baby, certainly, and I knew from the mirror that it was to be Minya Taurewen.

After Taurewen came Rosseion. The City rejoiced that a son was born at last; a prince who would eventually take the crown from his father; but Aragorn and I—and my brothers—knew it was only so long until the plague came…

And when it came, it ripped my little redheaded russahina of two years from my arms… we had to bury him quickly, for fear of spreading the infection. My son was not the only child lost; the mortality rate of all under twelve years old spent four years at nearly eight out of ten.

A year or so after the plague had finally slowed on its rampage, my brothers came to me. "Onónë28," Elladan began.

"We feel it is time for us to leave you," Elrohir finished. They had a habit of tag-teaming it.

Something surprisingly heavy hit my stomach, and I wondered if my noon meal was going to make a hasty retreat upwards.

"Onónë—sit down!" Elladan ordered, seeing how pale I was.

"We have seen you and your husband take control of Middle-Earth, and we are confident our services are no longer needed," Elrohir said.

"No, Toroni29…" I said. "I still need you! Aragorn needs you!"

"We need our mother, Onónë," Elladan explained.

"Don't leave me…" I was begging. Tears were beginning. Elladan and Elrohir were my last link to my people—Celeborn departed many years ago in search of his wife; the only ones who remained were Legolas and Celebgil—and the latter was uncertain; we hadn't heard from him for some time. We only knew that know known ship had born him away from our shores; yet no one knew where he had gone—though there were rumours of a crazed Elf running through the empty woods of Lothlorien.

"It is time, Onónë," Elladan said solemnly. "But there is a compensation coming to you."

"What is that?" I asked.

Elrohir put out a hand and rested it on my abdomen. "Call him Eldarion, Arwen."

"Son of Elves?" I asked, remembering the vision.

"Aye. And tell him of his great-grandmother, the fairest Elf-woman to ever walk the Golden Woods," Elladan put in.

"And his grandfather, who gave the most precious gift ever known to a mortal man," added Elrohir.

"And of his two uncles, who wish they could see his face, just once," Elladan finished.

"I will," I promised, wiping tears away.

"Come, Onónë. You knew this had to be," Elrohir comforted, putting a hand around my shoulders.

"But not so soon, Toron!" I protested. "I wanted you for so many years yet!"

"You've had us for many years. Many more than we planned." Elladan joined his brother in comforting me.

"But anything short of forever is too short," I wept.

"Onónë, if you won't see us off with a smile willingly, I will be forced to tickle you until you will," Elrohir said mock-seriously.

I wiped my tears away and gave him a beaming grin.

"That's better," Elladan said.

"Much better," Elrohir agreed.

"Farewell, Onónë Arwen," Elladan said, pulling me into a tight embrace.

I pressed my cheek to his and whispered, "I'll always love you best!" It had been an ongoing joke ever since we were little children that Elladan was my favourite of my two twin elders.

"Hey, no fair!" Elrohir exclaimed, pulling me away from Elladan and holding me at arm's length. "You're so grown up, Onónë," he commented. "And yet I'll always remember a little girl in ankle-length skirts wading in the mud with her brothers…"

"…Until one brother decided to see her do more than wade?" I asked, beginning to laugh. "_I _will always remember a little boy who tried to sneak out of his father's room to avoid punishment—by way of the chimney…"

"…And stuck!" Elladan burst out laughing at the memory.

Elrohir looked sheepish. "I grew in the time it took to get halfway up!" he explained. "And how about the _other_ little boy that tried to play a prank on his grandmother…"

"…And forgot that she had been skilled in ósanwë30!" I laughed.

"As long as you don't forget your memories," Elladan said, and I could see he was a little eager to change the subject, "We will never be far away."

"Namarie, Toron," I told him, hugging him again.

"Namarie, Onónë," he answered.

Elrohir hugged me tightly. "Namarie, Onónë," he said, kissing my hair.

"Namarie, Toron. May your waves be kind."

"May your _life _be kind," he replied.

I watched them ride away, and in doing so, watched a part of my life—the last of my family—the final piece of my life's puzzle—ride away. Never to return.

28. Onónë: Sister

29. Toron: Brother; Toroni: brothers

30. ósanwë: Telepathy; reading someone's mind


	43. What Happened After: Eowyn

Chapter XXI: What Happened After

Chapter XXI: What Happened After

30 August, 3019

When the King of Gondor returned from bidding his four small friends farewell, we set out once more for Gondor: The King and Queen, Prince Imrahil and Faramir—and the latter's betrothed, of course—as well as our respective entourages. My brother accompanied us, as well, as he had no desire to miss his sister's wedding to the most wonderful man in the world… not that I'm biased, of course.

In the Citadel of Gondor, Éowyn daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn was joined in marriage with Faramir son of Denethor and Finduilas. It was a very Gondorian ceremony; I wore a pale blue gown embroidered with white flowers, with a long train that stretched out behind me when I walked through the halls. My hair was braided up under a sheer veil that not only covered my hair, it also hid my face. I wore no jewellery save a tri-metal braided chain Mother had received on her wedding from her mother, Morwen of Lossarnach.

When the Ainer31 pronounced us wed, as customary Faramir pulled back the veil, and I am surprised that the entire Citadel was not filled with the light emanating from both our faces. I had never seen him so happy, neither had I felt so happy as he took my face between his hands and kissed me.

The people of the City crowded the streets as we left for the banquet hall, and hand in hand, and as at the coronation of the King, they threw rose petals into the air, which fell on us like sweet-smelling rain. Even now, when I shake the sleeves of the gown I wore, I sometimes find a crushed petal or two as a reminder of that day.

At the banquet, we took our places at the head table; Aragorn's place was at head, with his wife on his right, but Faramir and I were on his left as the honoured ones. Éomer sat beside me, and during the course of the meal, he said, "I have thought of taking a wife, Éowyn."

My eyebrows shot up. "Just _thought _of it?" I asked.

"I would advise it as really the only thing worth doing," Faramir said, giving me a sideways glance. "Wouldn't you agree, Aragorn?"

"Oh, yes, wives certainly come in useful," he replied. "Might I recommend the Elfkind? Their women truly outshine those of any other race."

"Certainly not!" Faramir disagreed. "I would advocate taking a wife from one of your own race… they take some taming, but all in all make the best partners."

I laid my head on his shoulder as a reward for such galliant words. But Éomer shook his head. "Actually… I was thinking of a Gondorian woman," he said slowly. "Imrahil has offered me the hand of his daughter Lothíriel."

"Ah, Lothíriel!" Faramir said. "I've met the woman: quiet thing, loves to ride, good sense of cleanliness without being overboard about it, and not to mention beautiful! She'd be wonderful for you, man, just what you need!"

"But is _he_ just what _she _needs?" Arwen asked quietly. I had been pondering much the same thing, though I was fully certain no woman in her right mind could turn my brother down—Weynia didn't count, of course, as I had never considered her in her right mind.

"I'll find out tonight," Éomer said. "I'll be visiting Imrahil and his daughter after the meal."

Faramir and I were unable to join my brother in his first meeting of Lothíriel; shortly after this exchange, Aragorn gave Faramir a subtle nod. "Come, my love," my husband whispered into my ear, rising from his place at the table.

I understood his wink, and excused myself as discreetly as possible. I watched Aragorn grin impishly over at Arwen; I wondered if they were remembering another quiet exit from another couple's banquet. But then Faramir took my hand, and no one else existed.

We ran like two guilty children down the halls to the chambers prepared for us, past guards who either looked straight ahead or winked knowingly at us. And when we reached the rooms, Faramir shut the door quickly, to block the gaze of any wandering down the halls.

He was blocking out the entire world, leaving us in entire seclusion.

Drawing a curtain over the following proceedings, I will add that Lothíriel was indeed to my brother's liking, and she to his. When I met the daughter of Imrahil—my benefactor—I saw a very petite, doe-eyed, dark-haired maiden of Gondor: Ioreth's ideal. Small, slender; her hair neatly packed beneath a black covering that fell almost to her waist—which I assumed was in its proper place; her many-layered outfit made it hard to tell. She spoke in a low, quiet voice, eyes downcast when speaking with men… but apparently she could see a lot through her long lashes; she liked what she saw in my brother. And so it was a very short time after I was married to Faramir that Éomer took Lothíriel daughter of Imrahil as his bride.

After my brother, wife in tow, departed again for his country, Faramir and I made yet another journey… this one to Ithilien. Named Prince of this, he was eager to purge it of its orken filth, and make it habitable for his bride. He showed me the secret caves behind the waterfall, and the housewife within me leapt at the challenge. Eagerly I sent to Minas Tirith for tapestries to down the chill factor; Faramir commissioned some of his men to build walls, enclosing spaces for bedrooms and private quarters, while leaving spaces open for banquet halls and the like; berths for the guardsmen were also designed with utmost care that they wouldn't be too crowded. I also sent home—to my home—for fur rugs for the floor and our own tapestries of Eorl the Young for the walls; I refused to have my future children live in a place solely Gondorian in design.

It was a proud day when many Gondorians that had always longed to live in the beautiful Ithilien but were too threatened by the Enemy were able to come. They built ramshackle huts until they could erect better housing; we knew it wouldn't be long until Ithilien became a proud city once more.

But the Caves of the Waterfall was reserved as the dwelling place for the Steward of Gondor and his wife, and their children, and their children's children, and so on until the ending of the world.

And thus it was that I prepared to live out my days in… a cave. A well-furnished, very comfortable and cosy cave, but a cave nonetheless. And I was content to live in a cave, and grow a garden just outside, and glean what knowledge I could from the healer among our party.

Yes, I was content.

31. Ainer: literally 'holy-man'; basically a priest.


	44. Epilogue: The End Of My Story: Arwen

Epilogue: The End of My Story

Epilogue: The End of My Story

As I saw in my grandmother's mirror, I lived long and happily with my husband at my side. My children grew and were blessed with the Elven insight and foresight; my friends enjoyed longevity and I was able to spend much longer in their company than I had thought possible.

To Aragorn, also, was granted the long life of his predecessors; for six-score years he has lived and does not yet weaken.

Faramir took his bride and entourage to Ithilien, where they lived until Faramir died in his sleep in 3084. Then Éowyn returned to her homeland of Rohan until she also died a decade later. Her children, who had married Gondorians, remained in Ithilien, and do so unto this day.

The tentative acquaintanceship between Éowyn and myself formed on the steps of Edoras developed into a mediocre friendship. Éowyn and I never shared a really warm bond, but exchanged letters from Ithilien and Minas Tirith for a time. My husband and I visited The Steward and his bride many times; they journeyed to Minas Tirith often as well.

Aragorn and I dwell still as King and Queen of Gondor and Anor, but now it occasionally enters my head—how much time do we have? For my husband's beard and hair are now fully grey; and though these are his only signs of aging, I worry.

And I occasionally drop into depression, missing my family. Sometimes I expect to turn around and see Nana and Adar standing behind me, and, foolish though it may be, I am heartbroken when there is only an empty hall to greet me.

Not there is much time to reflect, for I fill my days as much as possible, and Aragorn is fully compensation for my loss, if forsaking my family for my true love can be a loss. And I am not the only woman to sacrifice for her partner; Aragorn's mother Gilraen left her people to marry him, as did my own mother. Perhaps it is the finality of my choice that irks me.

It does not matter, even so. I am dearly in love with a man that is dearly in love with me, and I am satisfied with who I am.

I-Metta

of

_Beyond the Circles Of This World_


	45. Epilogue: The Final Piece: Eowyn

Epilogue: The Final Piece

Epilogue: The Final Piece

The years were good to my husband and I. The people at Ithilien grew to a small city over which Faramir and I were given full control. Aragorn and his wife came often to visit with us and see our progress on reclaiming the lands surrounding Minas Ithil.

A year after I was married, I became pregnant. When Arwen visited shortly after I discovered the conception, she said, "Oh… you will have a son."

I was a little sceptical at this, but sure enough, nine months later, my first son was born. He had my brown eyes, but his father's dark hair. Perhaps as a desperate plea to the gods for kindness as we tried to raise a son, we named him Stillmund—"Gentle-Hand". Surprisingly enough, while he had all the normal boy energy, he inherited his father's gentle spirit and philosophic mind.

Not so with the next children. When Elladan—one of Arwen's brothers—announced to me that I was carrying twin boys, I nearly flew through the roof in fear. "Don't worry," he comforted. "I was a twin. It wasn't so bad."

"I wasn't worried for their sakes," I grumbled.

"If it helps, my parents were scared, too," Elrohir—Elladan's twin—added.

"Actually, knowing that even _Elves _are scared of raising twin sons doesn't help at all," I groused, wondering where Faramir had gotten to.

My fears concerning Déorwine and Elfbrand were justified twice over; two more rambunctious little boys I have never seen before or since. Déorwine was a brilliant redhead with bright blue eyes; Elfbrand a brunet with his father's warm brown eyes.

By this time, I was mourning the lack of daughters and beginning to tear out my hair in frustration. Fortunately for my sanity, my next child—two years after my twins—was a daughter, who we named after Faramir's beloved mother, Finduilas. She was—and continues to be—like her mother in many—too many—respects. She has my eyes and my blond hair; and I continue to see my spirit in her—a fierce pride, a love for horses, and a determination beyond that of many men.

Hilandia, my old nurse and servant-woman, chose to live with us in Ithilien, but Weynia's Aldor was offered a high position among the éored and the two decided to remain in Edoras.

A few years after Finduilas was born, when I was again with child, I received word that Hilandia was ill. She preferred to live in a cottage away from the waterfalls; the humidity made her bones ache; so I waddled—I was eight months pregnant; yes, I waddled!—from my home to hers. She was lying in her bed—an unheard of thing for the woman that refused to let even a cold get her down.

"Hilandia?" I asked. She looked up, and attempted to rise to a sitting position, but I wouldn't let her. "Lay back; it won't kill you to be semi-human for a while."

"Never know," she said, and it came out in a rasp. She broke into a coughing fit. "Didn't want you to see me like this, but now it's too late, anyway. It's time I gave you this." She handed me a leather-bound book from a shelf on a nearby dresser. Impressed into the leather across the front was the image of a horse. I opened it. All the pages were blank but the first. I recognised my father's bold, sloping handwriting, as well as my mother's italic, fine print.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A gift from your parents. I was supposed to give it to you when you married, but somehow I never got to it."

"From my father, too?"

"Yes, read it, girl."

"I should be calling a healer—I need to take care of you—"

"Read it!" A command, like she used to tell me to go to bed or put Windfola in the stable or help her with the dishes.

So I flipped to the first page and began to read, sitting on the edge of the bed to take the weight off of my legs.

**Dear Éowyn: **it said in my father's bold block print,

**Today you are born. It was not an easy labour for your mother; your brother was considerably easier. But both your mother and I are so thrilled you are here. I have never seen such a beautiful little baby. You have my eyes, I think—they are golden brown. I think your hair will be blond; right now it's only a little bit of fuzz. I can't wait to see you grow into a woman. **

_Dear Éowyn: _my mother's fine script ran,

_You are one year old today. You have been walking for about two months, and have now begun to attempt to run. You have decided that anything your brother can do, you can do as well, despite the five-year difference. I am seeing more and more of your father in you—certain things in your chubby-cheeked expressions bring him to mind. And of course, you are as __stubborn__ as he is!_

**Dear Éowyn:**

**It's hard to believe that you have only been with us two years as of today. You feel like you've been a part of our lives forever. I am daily amazed at how well you and your brother get along. There is a bond between you that I never had with my sisters. **

_Dear Éowyn:_

_Today, on your third birthday, you rode a horse more-or-less by yourself. Garulf, one of your father's men, walked along beside to make sure you didn't fall off, but he needn't have bothered. You clung on with your knees and stuck to the horse like a burr!_

**Dear Éowyn: **

**You are becoming such a little beauty. Only four, and yet your hair—which, as I predicted, is a honey-blond—reaches your waist; your eyes are definitely mine beyond doubt; your speech has become much more fluent, and yesterday I heard you conversing quite easily in Rohirric with your mother. You lapse in and out of the Common Tongue and Rohirric; I hope eventually you are able to be equally qualified in both. **

_Dear Éowyn:_

_For your fifth birthday, we have given you a little bay foal to be your own. You have called him Windfola… don't ask me why. He is a strong thing, and will soon be sturdy enough to bear a rider. _

**Dear Éowyn:**

**Happy sixth birthday! I hope that this will be the year you work on curbing your roughness into gentleness; I am eager to see you become a lady. Even so, you are the most beautiful little vagabond I have ever seen, and I love you dearly. **

_Dear Éowyn:_

_You are beginning to look a good deal like your grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, especially when you look out a window at the landscape with that dreamy expression in your eyes. Not that you stay still long enough to do so for very long!_

At this point, the page became dimpled as if drops of water had fallen on it, and the writing was smudged.

_Dear Éowyn:_

_Your father has been killed in battle with the orcs, and I fear that his last parting with you will embitter you against him. Don't let this happen. He loved you, Éowyn, and he loved me. Please, don't let hate keep you from being truly happy. You were his jewel—his funny, seven-year-old jewel. He didn't know how to show that he didn't want you to get hurt—and that he didn't want me to get hurt, either. If this page has told you nothing of your father, let it tell you this: __He loved you__. Don't ever forget that, no matter where you go. Let this book remind you. Use the rest of the pages to record how you have come to happiness, fulfilled your dreams, and proven yourself. I know you will, and, by the time you get this, will have already done it. _

_-Théodwyn, daughter of Thengel_

"Did they do this for Éomer, too?" I asked, still bending over the book with tears in my eyes.

There was no reply.

I looked up. She was lying still wither her eyes closed and a smile on her face. The blankets over her chest had ceased to rise and fall.

"Hilandia…" I breathed. I set down the book, stood up, and pulled the sheets over her head. She was dead. But she had given me a gift so precious…

My entire heart was mine, once more. Or rather, Faramir's. I had gained the final piece, and I had also learned things about Father I had never dreamed could have been. He had loved me. And he had loved Mother.

And when we hurt, it's not always out of hate. Sometimes it's because we don't know how to show that we love. And the cycle isn't endless; there can be an end to the hating and hurting. We can forgive.

The child I bore was a son, whom I named after his father—Faramir. We lived in Ithilien yet, and probably will until the end of our days. I have visited Rohan and my brother many times, and Éomer has come to Ithilien frequently as well.

As Mother wished, I have used this book to record how I came to happiness, how I fulfilled my dreams, and how I proved myself worthy of the title _Shield-Maiden_.

The End

of

_A Shield-Maiden Of The North_


	46. Afterword by Aminta Took

Afterword by Aminta Took

This is where both manuscripts end. I believe that Aragorn and Arwen and Faramir and Éowyn met in the afterworld, but that is merely my opinion. My father believes that when we die, there is nothing left. Who knows? Who can say for sure?

It doesn't matter from an archaeologist and historian perspective, I think I speak for all of us when I say that these stories provide a fascinating look into the lives of two of the most famous women in Middle-Earth's history. Through my study of artefacts, I have been able to verify enough of the referred to events to consider these documents a reliable account of the WR. Éowyn is a well known horsewoman; her mother and father did die when she was a young child, and Éomund was also known as being very hot-tempered. Arwen, of course, is famous for her sacrificial choice; her son Eldarion's name lives on even today.

Until I read Éowyn's account of the Nazgûl's death, I believed that the Hobbit Meriadoc--a distant relation of mine--had killed the Black Captain without aid from any other source, and that the Rohirric myth that Éowyn had assisted was only legend. Shire-folk legend goes that Éowyn was knocked cold and Meriadoc challenged the Witch King to single combat… and won.

I could go on and on about the magnificence of this find, and how it reveals these two women to us as never before--Éowyn's despair, Arwen's struggle to stick to her choice… these were two living beings, and not merely names in a history book. I was most intrigued with Éowyn, I think. Perhaps because they are not so unlike Hobbits. But both women stand out as real personalities, and I am proud to have been the finder of this magnificent work.

--Aminta Took


End file.
